


Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

by CitrusVanille



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Past Relationship(s), Past Tony Stark/OMC - Freeform, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Protective Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Protective Pepper Potts, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 06:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18543880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: It's been a year since they fought off the Chitauri, and while they work well together in the field, Steve and Tony can't seem to stop getting caught arguing afterwards. The public are getting concerned. Obviously, the answer is marriage.





	Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

**Author's Note:**

> First, an enormous thank you to amoergosum for being a fantastic beta and an all-around rockstar.
> 
> Second, I started writing this back in 2012, when we were all young(er) and innocent(ish). I then abandoned it for years, during which time I lived in four different cities, worked in several different fields, finished undergrad, started graduate school, and saw the wonderful disasters that were Phases 2 and 3. These last I decided to ignore when I picked up writing this again, so it is compliant only through the first Avengers film, and I've made an effort to keep it that way, though it's possible bits of backstory or characterizations from later films (or elsewhere) may have snuck in.
> 
> In honor of (or perhaps in defiance of) the rapidly approaching Endgame, I wanted to post this in its entirety, but work and school decided to intervene, and I still have somewhere between half and a third still to write. Maybe I will be done in time for Far From Home. For now, here is part one. May it remind you of simpler times.

Tony’s in the workshop when the pictures hit the internet. The notification chimes softly to indicate a new reference to Tony Stark in the media, followed immediately by another for images. Through the haze of Neon Knights and intense focus, Tony recognizes the alerts and categorically ignores them as unimportant until Pepper tells him otherwise.

Some time later – at least half a dozen chimes, which could mean ten minutes or ten hours – Tony’s elbow-deep in holographic blueprints for a reactor-based Maserati engine when Cover You in Oil cuts out abruptly, followed by the hiss of the door and the sharp clack of Pepper’s heels crossing the floor.

“We have a situation,” Pepper announces. There’s something off in her voice, and that’s what makes Tony turn. The tight twist of her mouth makes him frown.

“Jarvis, save this, here, and that,” Tony says, waving the images clear.

“Saving, sir,” Jarvis replies.

“What’s this about?” Tony asks when Pepper doesn’t immediately say anything, just clicks her nails unconsciously against her clipboard.

Pepper clears her throat, taps the clipboard again, says, “Jarvis, would you run a web search for Tony Stark? Just project the first link that comes up.”

“Of course, Ms. Potts.”

“Pepper, what –” Tony starts again, but the images are already flickering to life around them, and. Oh.

“You didn’t know,” Pepper says, not a question, but.

“I burned everything. There weren’t any digital copies. We didn’t. It was the nineties,” Tony can’t seem to stop staring at the projections. There are a handful of photos, a couple of them in public – “Tony Stark and Friend” – but mostly private moments, pictures he hasn’t seen in a decade and a half. And then the video. God. What had he been thinking?

Pepper’s hand on his arm startles him, and he jerks to look at her, grimaces at the look on her face.

“Don’t do that,” he tells her. “That thing, with your face. It makes me feel like there’s someone killing puppies, and nobody likes a puppy-killer, but I don’t know how to save the puppies.”

“Tony.”

“I could maybe get the gang together, set up a mission, Operation Save the Puppies, but then we’d have to know who’s killing the puppies, and there aren’t actually any puppies in need of saving. I mean, there are, of course, puppies in need of saving, all the time, I’ve seen the ads, but there are no specific puppies being targeted at this moment in time, at least that I’m aware of. What I mean is –”

“Tony, shut up,” Pepper digs her nails in, just a bit, and Tony almost swallows his tongue, trying to stop the flow of words. “We need to talk about this,” she gestures with her clipboard at the images floating around them, the freeze-frame of the video, “not hypothetically endangered puppies.”

Tony twitches a little. “I don’t want to talk about Trent.” It’s both easier and harder to say the name than he’d thought it would be. Fifteen years.

The distress hasn’t left Pepper’s face, but she looks determined now, as well. Multi-tasking facial expressions. Tony wonders if most people can do that, or if it’s just her. “Whether or not you want to talk about him – and I understand that you don’t – we still have to handle this.”

“What is there to handle?” Tony asks, knows exactly what there is, if this is really showing up top of a simple online search, but that doesn’t mean he wants to do it. “It’s a sex tape. This is not the worst thing that’s turned up on the internet.”

“It’s not the tape, Tony, and you know it.” Pepper really does know him too well. “It’s the pictures, it’s the article –”

Tony cuts her off. “The article?”

Pepper frowns. “Jarvis, where’s –”

“Right here, Ms. Potts,” Jarvis replies, and a text spread brightens amongst the photos.

It’s an interview, an online magazine, a reporter Tony doesn’t know, doesn’t think he knows, and Trent. Short simple questions, and Trent waxing poetic about their relationship, the year they’d spent together, how in love they’d been, the secret trips, expensive getaways, private moments. It somehow manages to gloss over the end, just says Tony had become distant, ignoring Trent, and Trent couldn’t handle never knowing where Tony was, who he was with, when it was all over the society pages how Tony was seen with a different woman on his arm every night. It says nothing about the company secrets Trent had been trying to steal, the sealed lawsuit, the fifteen years he’d spent in prison.

The soft hum of computer engines is the only sound in the shop for a long time.

Eventually, Pepper squeezes Tony’s arm, sans nails this time, but Tony still jumps. He’d forgotten she hadn’t let go.

“It’s going to be everywhere,” she says, voice crisp, pure business, a perfect copy of every time she’s ever needed Tony to sign something, approve something, every time he’s shown up in the media for any number of reasons and she’s had to issue a statement for him. Tony appreciates it, and tries to ignore the way her expression still hasn’t changed. “It’s just online right now, but it will be in print by tomorrow, latest. He can’t talk about the lawsuit without going back to jail, and he can’t make something else up without someone digging and finding out the truth, so he’s going to avoid that, but the rest of it, well. It’s pretty obvious it’s not a recent thing, but it’s still going to get a lot of airtime. You’ve never been known to have serious relationships, certainly not with men, so there are going to be questions.”

“It had nothing to do with the fact that he was male,” Tony snaps, then shuts his mouth again. This isn’t Pepper’s fault.

“I know that,” Pepper says steadily, “but it’s going to look like it. I can make a statement that you just wanted your privacy, if you like, but it’s unlikely that will help much.”

“Do it,” Tony tells her. “It will blow over. An old affair won’t hold anyone’s attention long.”

Pepper eyes him for a moment, lips pursed, but nods. It’s true enough, at least for a certain value of true. Something else will catch the public eye, something more recent, and in a week, everyone will be fussing over that. Trent can crawl back to whatever hellhole he’d crawled out of sixteen years ago, and Tony can go back to pretending Trent McPherson never existed.

+

Eight days after Steve stopped being able to turn around without seeing Tony’s face splashed over every media surface with the brunet McPherson alongside, he gets called in for some kind of meeting. There’s no preparatory packet to read through, no Fury coming in to beard him in the gym, just a phone call after breakfast, “1300 in the conference room, Captain,” and then nothing.

He spends the rest of his morning reading a hard copy of _The Times_. He goes over the article praising Illinois for legalizing same-sex marriage twice, feels that odd mixture of proud and sad that he’s become so used to since he woke up. It’s so hard to wrap his head around the idea that not only is homosexuality no longer illegal, but men can marry other men, women can marry other women. Except not everywhere, and that hits him in the chest harder than anything. He doesn’t quite understand how it can be accepted and not accepted at the same time. It just doesn’t make sense. The pictures in the paper of Chicago, though, he can’t help but smile at them, couples kissing in the streets, crowds waving rainbow flags. Baby steps, he thinks, baby steps.

And when he walks into the conference room after lunch, he’s still thinking about the videos he’d watched of the parades, thinks he might like to take another roadtrip, drive out west, see the Windy City from his bike instead of the stage. He’s not expecting to see an image of himself in uniform arguing with Iron Man projected up on the screen at the front of the room.

“Sit down, Captain,” Fury’s command sounds oddly like a request.

Steve looks around the table; Tony at the far end with his eyes fixed on his phone, posture overly relaxed, Natasha next to him, apparently having a conversation across the table with Clint using only their eyebrows – one day Steve will learn to do that – Banner a few seats farther down tapping on his own phone. Coulson’s sitting next to Fury, turned as if they’d been talking before Steve came in, but now he’s watching Steve, expression even more unreadable than usual. Steve sits.

“It appears we have a situation,” Fury announces.

Tony’s head comes up, fingers stilling against the screen of his phone. Steve abruptly realizes he’s staring, trying to figure out if he’s ever seen the man smile at anyone the way he smiled at McPherson in all those photos, and turns back towards Fury. He ends up staring at the projection instead, wondering if he’s about to get chewed out for fighting again with Tony in public.

“Our esteemed members of the press,” Fury’s voice is dripping sarcasm, “have decided that they weren’t getting enough mileage out of Stark’s old flames, so they’re trying something different on for size. This,” he waves at the screen on the wall, “is part of their latest attempt to stick their collective nose into Avengers business.”

“I don’t see how this is new,” Clint remarks. “Stark and Cap have been butting heads for the last year, and it hasn’t made any difference when it comes time to get the job done. Why does anyone care now?”

“Because, now, Captain America doesn’t approve of my lifestyle choices.” Tony’s tone is so bland it takes a minute for his words to sink in.

“Excuse me?” Steve isn’t sure he actually wants clarification.

Coulson clears his throat. “The general public consensus is that the primary reason behind Captain America and Iron Man’s altercations is Tony Stark’s fluid sexuality. It has been assumed that given the mores of the times in which you were raised, you are less than supportive of same-sex relationships.”

“But that’s – that’s just not true,” Steve says. “I’ve never said anything against – I –”

“Stop before you hurt yourself, Captain,” Fury cuts him off, pointedly eyes where Steve’s fingers are clenching around the edges of the table, “or anything else.”

Steve tries to make his hands relax. It’s more difficult than it should be.

“We know you’re not homophobic, Cap,” Natasha tells him, “doesn’t mean people won’t say what they want about you to further their own ends.”

“But –”

“There are two camps,” Banner puts in, and why does everyone seem to know what’s going on but Steve? “Half the country thinks you’re the only thing standing between them and the destruction of all their so-called Family Values – they want Tony off the team, thinks he’ll corrupt everyone with his deviant ways.” Tony snorts, but doesn’t interrupt. “The other half think you’re a bigot, can’t believe you’re allowed to represent our country, and want to get rid of you before you drag us all back to the Middle Ages.”

It’s all so ridiculous Steve can’t even think of a way to object, just sits and gapes for a long moment. He knows the world is still fighting over race, religion, politics, pushing smaller groups down, and he hates it, always has, but the very idea that people would think _he_ would support the denial of anyone’s basic rights makes him nauseous. He’d been so thrilled earlier, watching videos from Chicago, and even while he’d been doing that, people had been claiming he was morally opposed to the very thing those videos had been celebrating.

“– find a way to spin this,” Fury is saying, and Steve realizes the conversation has continued without him. “If we’re convincing enough, this whole thing ought to blow over, and we can go back to dealing with _actual_ threats.”

“Pepper’s working on it.” Tony is looking at his phone again, tapping swiftly across the screen. “Hasn’t thought of something yet, but she will. She always does.”

Fury’s mouth twists into something that might be a frown. “Not that I doubt the impressive abilities of Ms. Potts, but smoothing over your dumbass drunken mishaps is different from convincing the country that Cap here doesn’t want you burned at the stake, or whatever bull they’re all spouting at the moment.”

“We just need a workable alternative reason for why we always get caught when we don’t agree,” Tony counters. “Isn’t that what you Men in Black always do when something can’t be explained truthfully?”

“Everyone already knows you won’t take direction, and you can’t stop your mouth,” Clint points out. “Too bad we _can’t_ just tell them the truth.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at him. “They’ll just say we’re covering it up, or that even if that’s what the actual fight is about, the undercurrent is their differing moral standpoints.”

“I said _too bad we can’t_ –” Clint starts, but.

“We could tell them we’re getting married,” Steve says, realizing as the words come out that he’s not just thinking it, and that. That was not something he’d actually meant to vocalize.

Everyone swivels to look at him.

“I beg your pardon?” From Fury, it doesn’t really sound like a request for clarification.

Steve can feel his neck getting warm. “I just thought. Well. Engaged couples fight all the time, right? About wedding plans and. And other things. And if we’re getting married, clearly I have nothing against same-sex marriage. And it might help encourage more states to legalize it, even, if we were to set the example. This morning, in Illinois, they were having parades, and I was thinking it would be nice if there was something I could do to help that along in other places, so if we –” Steve realizes he’s rambling, cuts himself off, and looks down at his hands for a moment, before looking back up at the faces still turned to his. “It would prove there are no problems among the Avengers, and it might help a good cause,” he says, more succinctly, finally lets go of the table, and folds his hands neatly in his lap.

“Well.” Fury narrows his eye at him, then skims a glance around the group. “Anyone else?”

Coulson taps the table. “An engagement won’t work,” he says. “It will have to be an actual marriage.”

Steve blinks. “It. What?”

“An engagement is a publicity stunt. A marriage is a commitment.”

“So a marriage is more believable?” Steve’s not quite sure what to make of that. The logic seems right, but what they’re discussing _is_ a publicity stunt, in the simplest terms. He’d always thought getting married would be more. Intimate. Personal. Something he’d planned with the person he was marrying, not a battle plan discussed at a table.

But Coulson’s nodding. “A marriage is infinitely more believable. And it is far less likely to end up accidentally offending the people you are trying to help when it ends. A broken engagement could easily come off as a mockery as well as a publicity stunt, whereas a failed marriage is an attempt at permanence, and then two people who didn’t work the way they’d thought they would at the start of the thing. Divorce rates aren’t as high as people tend to believe, but they are still fairly high, especially for high profile couples. The marriage would have to last for some time, though, to prevent any negative backlash regarding divorce rates among same-sex couples, since they are significantly lower than with heterosexual marriages.”

“You keep saying ‘marriage’ like it’s an actual option,” Tony comments, eyes flicking from Steve to Coulson and back, then down to his phone as it lights up against his fingers. His mouth twitches a little at one corner.

“You said yourself we needed a workable alternative,” Fury points out, and Steve is surprised to realize he knows the man well enough to detect the hint of smugness.

Tony’s brows pinch together. “When I said –”

“This,” Fury continues, like Tony hadn’t spoken, “is a workable alternative. The press will have a field day, but the entire country will eat it with a spoon. Everyone loves a love story. Even Middle America. And at least they’ll be out for both of your blood, instead of thinking you’re out for each others’, so maybe they’ll stop harping on team discord endangering their lives and just go back to baying about immorality endangering their sensibilities.”

“I don’t think you quite –” Tony tries, but Fury’s already pushing back his chair.

“So we’re good here?” Fury stands.

Tony makes a huffing noise. “No,” he says, loudly, “we’re not good here.”

Fury meets Tony’s glare for a long moment, then nods once. “You’re good here. I’ll leave you to it.” And he sweeps out.

No one says anything for several seconds.

“Right,” Coulson finally says. Steve manages to stop staring at the door long enough to swing back to face him. He doesn’t even look ruffled, something Steve envies. “This will have to happen quickly. A long engagement from this point will spark more rumors we don’t want. If we get it moving quickly, though, everyone will just assume it’s _already_ been a long engagement.”

“How quickly?” Steve asks

“End of the week, I’d say.”

“End of the week?” That’s. Incredibly soon.

“Call it next weekend. That’ll give you enough time to get your things together.”

“Get our things together?” Steve’s starting to feel like a broken record. He looks over at Tony, whose eyes are fixed on his phone again, fingers moving rapidly. He turns back to Coulson.

Coulson has his own phone out, now, tapping efficiently without the sharp motions Tony’s using. “You’ll be moving in with Stark, of course,” he says, glances up, must be able to read how flabbergasted Steve feels in the expression on his face. Steve thinks his jaw might unhinge if it keeps dropping. He maybe needs to get a handle on that. “It won’t look like much of a marriage if you aren’t even living together,” he points out, tone surprisingly gentle. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees Tony look up sharply, but when he turns, Tony’s looking at his screen again.

“Do we need to be here for this?” Clint asks, and Steve had almost forgotten the whole team was there.

“No,” Coulson replies. “Actually, none of you need to be here right now. Cap, Stark, we’ll be in touch to brief you in a couple hours, so stay on premises. The rest of you can go. We’ll keep you updated when you’re needed.”

If they had been anyone else, Steve’s pretty sure there would have been a mad dash for the door. As is, Natasha and Clint are silently gone in seconds, and Banner and Tony have vanished out into the corridor – Banner asking Tony something about the lab – before Steve has even made it out of his chair.

“Don’t worry,” Coulson says from behind him, and Steve turns back at the door. “We’ll get it all sorted out soon enough, fix the situation, and then it will just be a waiting game.”

“I’m not worried,” Steve says, and it’s not really a lie.

Coulson eyes him. “Good,” he says. “Glad you’re not worried. It wouldn’t be a good start. If you were worried, Stark might worry, and what a marriage that would be.”

“I’m not,” Steve repeats, a little more firmly. He won’t be, anyway. Nothing to worry about, after all.

“Stark’s a good guy,” Coulson says, as if that might be a concern. “Brash and reckless, but good. You know that.”

“I do,” Steve says carefully, not sure if this is supposed to be comforting or not.

“That’s the spirit.” Coulson’s mouth twitches in what might be a smile.

+

Pepper shows up in the lab to summon Tony back to the conference room. Not that Tony doesn’t appreciate the soothing balm of her presence, but it’s a rather underhanded trick, sending her in. He would have shown up on his own. Probably. If he’d remembered. As it is,

“Bruce is just showing me this one last –”

“It can wait,” Pepper informs him, and, no, it really can’t, but Bruce, the traitor, just waves him off, so Tony ends up trailing Pepper back across the lab and out into the hallway.

The familiar clack of Pepper’s heels against the floor has a calming effect for about half a minute. “This is a bad idea,” Tony announces. “Tell me you don’t think this is a bad idea. Because I think this is a bad idea.”

Pepper side-eyes him. “The board will be in favor. Captain Rogers is a stabilizing influence, apparently. Can only be good for stocks and for the company itself. That’s probably going to be the general opinion, actually. They’ll chalk your recent better behavior up to him.”

“So I stop making drive-by messes of everyone else’s lives, and Rogers gets the credit? How nice for him.”

“I doubt he’ll see it that way.”

Tony snorts. “Of course not. He’s just doing me a favor. Doing us all a favor. Taking one for the team. Selfless Steve Rogers to the rescue.”

“Tony.”

“I know. I know.” Tony heaves a put upon sigh. “We both made the mistake of bitching each other out in public, so we both get to pay the price. Poetic justice, you think?”

Pepper rolls her eyes, and pushes into one of the conference rooms instead of responding further.

Coulson looks up at their entrance and his face does the twitchy thing Tony’s learning means he’s smiling. “Ms. Potts,” he says. “A pleasure as always to see you.”

“Phil, you’re looking well.” Pepper’s wearing a proper smile, Tony notes, nothing twitchy about it.

“Ms. Potts,” Rogers is part way around the table, standing awkwardly, like he’d jumped to his feet when they’d walked in. Tony wishes he’d been paying attention to have seen that.

“Captain Rogers,” Pepper’s still smiling, but it’s not quite as warm as it was for Coulson. Tony maybe shouldn’t still be categorizing her smiles, but he’s never been good at breaking bad habits.

“Nice to see you, Tony,” Tony says, and gets three unimpressed looks for his trouble. “Just finishing the rounds,” he tells them breezily, and pulls out a chair. “Ms. Potts,” he says, and grins sunnily at Pepper.

Pepper purses her lips, but sits. “Thank you, Mr. Stark,” she says primly.

Tony grins involuntarily, and slides into the seat next to her. When he looks away he finds Rogers watching them, a small frown creasing his forehead. “Problem?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, and Rogers starts, like he hadn’t even realized he was staring.

“Not at all,” he replies, and turns pointedly away. “Agent, you said you had information for us?”

“More like guidelines,” Coulson clarifies. Tony doesn’t find that particularly comforting. “Cap, you’ll be moving by the end of the day. I’ll send a few agents to your apartment when we’re done here to help you with any packing, and they’ll see everything’s relocated without any fuss. You have dinner reservations this evening. It will be private, but not too private. Photographs will be taken of you holding hands at the table and of you returning home together. The rest of your week has been similarly planned. We don’t want to overdo it, but we want it out there before the wedding next Saturday. Ms. Potts, you are drawing up the prenuptial agreement?”

“Natasha promised to run over it with me when we’re done here,” Pepper confirms. Tony swivels to look at her.

“Natasha?”

“Her legal background is legitimate, and we don’t want to bring the company lawyers in yet. We’ll have them go over everything just before the wedding, after the news has been leaked, but we want something solid prepared before then.”

Logic. Great. “Right,” is all Tony says out loud.

Pepper touches his arm lightly. Tony’s pretty sure that’s cheating.

Tony turns back to Coulson, ignoring the odd look Rogers is now giving him. “Anything else, oh great one?” he asks. “Ms. Potts will make sure Jarvis has an updated calendar, complete with instructions on hand-holding for the cameras, and he’ll make sure the Stone Soldier gets all my plus-ones.”

“All right, then,” Coulson nods. Taps the table for a moment. “The others will need to be updated.”

“Of course.” Tony only takes half a second to think about it, then adds, “I’ll have Jarvis let them know they can move into the Tower as well. There are apartments for all of them.”

Pepper kicks him under the table.

Tony manages not to wince, turns to look at her. “You can tell them, if you’d rather.”

She sighs. “You could tell them yourself.”

Tony gives her a look he hopes properly conveys what he thinks of that, and how well it would go over. Jarvis knows how to send perfectly tactful e-mails, Tony’s not quite sure why Pepper’s always trying to make extra work for herself.

“If you’d like to share with the class?” Coulson’s bland tone manages to sound long-suffering.

“As part of the remodel, Tony designed apartments in the Tower for all the Scoobies,” Pepper sounds equally long-suffering. Tony figures she, at least, is probably entitled. “Sorry, Captain,” she adds across the table to Rogers.

“It’s fine,” Rogers says, though he looks a little baffled.

Pepper nods and continues. “Dr. Banner is, of course, already there. Natasha and Agent Barton are welcome at any time. Unless SHIELD objects to its agents living off-base?”

Coulson’s mouth does the twitchy thing again. “Were that the case, I’m sure an exception could be made.”

Tony resists the urge to point out that that is not, in fact, an answer, and he can tell from Pepper’s smile that she is doing the same. He doesn’t look to see Rogers’s reaction.

“Wonderful,” Pepper says dryly. “I’ll let Natasha know when I see her, then, shall I?”

“Of course, Ms. Potts,” Coulson’s tone matches Pepper’s. “I will inform Agent Barton.” Coulson pauses, then adds, “Though he is likely to hear it from Agent Romanoff as soon as she is made aware.”

Pepper’s eyes crinkle just a bit at the corner with a hidden grin, and Tony suppresses a sigh. Good thing he’s not used to a quiet life.

+

By the time Steve reaches his apartment, there are already half a dozen agents waiting outside, sitting on the stoop and chatting. Steve is never sure if this sort of thing is generally how SHIELD operates, or if it’s just down to Coulson’s special brand of efficiency.

He pulls around the side of the building to park his bike, throws the kickstand, and heads back out to the sidewalk, taking a deep breath and letting it out again slowly before rounding the corner.

“Captain,” one of the female agents rises to her feet as he approaches. “We were waiting for you.”

Steve gives her a wry smile. “Ma’am.” He nods at the other agents as they stand. “Thank you for waiting.” Most of them are trying to suppress grins, and Steve appreciates that they did wait, instead of just waltzing into his apartment without him. He holds no delusions that his otherwise-secure home is locked to SHIELD.

The agents follow Steve inside and up the stairs to his apartment, waiting politely as he jiggles the key a little in the lock before it turns. He doubts any of the locks in Stark Tower need any extra coaxing to open, can’t even remember seeing any actual locks the few times he’s been there, everything just slid open automatically.

“Anywhere in particular you’d like us to start?” the female agent who’d spoken downstairs asks. Steve figures he should probably ask her name.

Steve glances around the space. There’s not much here he’s particularly attached to, just a few things he’s picked up over the last months, and even those aren’t all that important. He’s still settling in, really, hasn’t had time to make much of a home here. “Why don’t you start out here, Agent…” Steve trails off expectantly.

The agent laughs. “Godfrey,” she supplies.

“Pleased to meet you, Agent Godfrey,” Steve responds automatically, and she gives him a mock salute. “I’ll pack up a few things in the bedroom, if you’d like to start out here.”

Agent Godfrey laughs again, and waves at the other agents. “Let’s get a move on, folks. We’re on a deadline.”

“Deadline?” Steve asks.

“Agent Coulson was very specific,” Agent Godfrey tells him, and then moves off to start wrapping plates Steve doesn’t even remember buying.

Steve watches for a moment, then gives himself a firm mental shake and goes to collect the things he doesn’t want random SHIELD agents prodding through.

As it turns out, the things he would rather pack himself don’t even fill a duffle bag. He zips the bag closed anyway. No point in weighing it down with other things.

Agent Godfrey is calmly directing the packing of Steve’s life into neatly labeled brown boxes when Steve comes out of his bedroom.

“I’ll just,” he jerks his head towards the front door. Agent Godfrey waves an acknowledging hand at him and one of the other agents straightens up like he’s going to salute and thinks better of it, but no one else even glances in his direction. “Right,” he says, and heads outside, not bothering to lock the door behind him.

Back on the street he doesn’t even pause to think, just lets his feet carry him away from the apartment block. He wonders if this will be the last time he does this, here, or if he’ll end up moving back when the whole sham marriage is over, whensoever that might be. What’s ‘some time,’ anyway? A few months? Years? Do they even know? Does it matter? Maybe he’ll stay at the Tower. If everyone else is moving in, he should probably be with them, but maybe there won’t be a place there for him after this ends, figuratively or literally.

Eventually, Steve finds himself outside a café he’s been to at least a dozen times. It’s usually packed in the morning, but this late in the afternoon there are only a handful of people inside. He orders a drink and settles in at one of the tables, a sketchbook from his bag open in front of him.

He starts sketching Stark Tower while he waits. He’s drawn it enough that it’s not hard to do from memory, even in detail. He leaves off the smashed windows that had still graced the penthouse the last time he’d been there, knows Tony and Ms. Potts have had it fixed in the last year even though he hasn’t been above the conference levels of the Tower since the Chitauri attack. He wonders what the inside looks like now, what the private rooms are like. He’ll be sharing Tony’s space, which he can’t picture as anything less than modernly opulent – or maybe opulently modern, he can never tell with Tony – but he got the impression there were separate residences for the rest of the Avengers. He can’t imagine anything Tony has designed being anything like the army barracks, and Ms. Potts did say apartments, but he can’t really imagine it being anything like his current apartment, either.

The barista calls Steve’s name and he goes back to the counter to pick up his drink. When he turns around again, Fury is sitting at his table. Somehow, Steve is not surprised.

“What do you want, Nick?” Steve asks, dropping into his chair.

“A man can’t stop by to congratulate a friend on his coming nuptials?”

Steve just looks at him. He finds it interesting how many people will explain themselves if he waits long enough. He doesn’t really think Fury is one of those people who will explain anything he doesn’t want to, but it’s always worth a shot.

Fury eyes him speculatively for a minute, then leans his elbows on the table. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he says, and it’s not soft, Steve’s not sure Fury knows how to speak softly, but it is quiet, a low rumble of words. “What you’re doing with Stark,” he clarifies, “it’s not going to be easy. But it’s what we’ve got.”

“Seems to me it’s being handled,” Steve says. “We just show up where and when we’re told and look happy to be there. Nothing too new about that. For either of us.”

“And how often does Stark show up where and when he’s told?” Fury asks rhetorically. “He’s a stubborn piece of work, and you’re no better, that’s what got us here. So forgive me if I don’t just assume you’ll be able to smile at a few cameras and everything will be coming up roses.”

Steve snorts. “No. But the two of us are stuck in this together. This isn’t something either of us wants, but at least we’re in the same boat, and if it’s what the team needs to be able to do its job, well, it’s a lot better than some of the things we’ve sacrificed.”

The sound Fury makes isn’t agreement, but it’s not quite disagreement either. “You and Stark might have very different ideas of what kind of boat you’re sailing.”

Steve has a sudden image of himself in a rowboat with Tony blasting by in a souped-up PT. He’s not quite sure if it’s funny or not. “We’re better than we were,” he says, feeling a little defensive, thinks they haven’t been arguing less, precisely, but it doesn’t take an alien invasion to keep them from coming to blows anymore, either. And they talk, sometimes, nothing too personal, but in the last few months they’ve been able to have entire conversations that don’t turn into shouting matches. He’s started thinking of him as Tony, lately, too, didn’t want to overstep at first, but Tony calls him Steve occasionally, and Cap far more than Rogers, so he figures it’s okay. It’s progress.

From the look Fury is giving him, though, that wasn’t what he’d meant. “If you were going to kill each other, you would have done it by now,” is what he says. “No one is expecting any miracles from the two of you on that score. But being married isn’t about not fighting, it’s about picking your battles, and having them in the privacy of your own damn home.”

“You’ve been married long, then, Nick?” Steve can’t help asking.

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Fury tells him, but it doesn’t sound like an answer. “Nice drawing.” Fury taps the sketchbook.

Steve looks down automatically, even though he knows what the picture is, and realizes Fury’s finger is touching the small figure rising from the landing pad, captured in flight and surprisingly detailed given Steve doesn’t remember adding it in.

“Careful with this one,” Fury says, looks back up at Steve. “I haven’t worked this hard to keep him up and running to watch him go down over this. And his father would never forgive either of us if you broke him now and I hadn’t done anything to prevent it.”

Steve is starting to get whiplash from this conversation. It’s an unfortunate side effect of talking to Fury, sometimes, even though it always seems to turn out later that everything was actually connected. It’s trying, but he usually at least attempts to keep up. “You were,” he pauses, “close?” he decides on. “With Howard Stark.”

Fury tilts his head, considering. “In this business, you are close with everyone, and you are close with no one.”

“Not what I meant,” Steve tells him, though he’d put money on Fury knowing that.

“It’s what you’ve got,” Fury answers. “Don’t break his kid.”

Steve snorts. “He’s hardly a kid.”

Fury gives him an unimpressed look.

Steve just shrugs. “Pretty sure he’d have to care for me to break him, anyway. I’m never sure he cares enough for anyone to break him. World threats, sure, but a single person?” Steve shrugs again, then eyes Fury speculatively. “Except maybe Ms. Potts?”

Steve had been under the impression Ms. Potts and Tony weren’t a couple any longer, but some of the things he’s seen today would imply otherwise.

“The indomitable Pepper Potts,” Fury doesn’t even sound sarcastic. “She’s impressively effective. I wouldn’t piss her off, even if I were you.” The look Fury gives him seems significant, but Steve can’t quite parse it.

If Ms. Potts and Tony _are_ still together, will this fake marriage upset their relationship? Surely Ms. Potts understands the situation. She’s been involved in all the proceedings. She had seemed perfectly fine earlier, though Tony had been off, somehow. Was it because of that? Was he worried that while she put a good face on it in public, she would be angry, or hurt, when they got time alone?

“I hadn’t planned to upset her. Will the current circumstances… distress her, do you think?”

“She’s used to cleaning up Stark’s messes,” Fury reminds him, which is both as unhelpful as everything else he’s said since he sat down and unflattering to boot.

Steve manages not to grit his teeth. “And Trent McPherson? Is he another mess?”

“I suggest you ask your fiancé about McPherson,” Fury tells him, rising. “I don’t have time for this.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek to keep from pointing out that Fury was the one who had sought Steve out, not the other way around. “For Tony’s exes?” he asks instead. He’s fishing now, he knows he is, and he’s not quite sure why, but the whole situation is bothering him, and he wants to know.

Fury rolls his eye expressively. “If you want Stark’s history, put in a request with archives. If you can’t find it there, ask _him_. I’ve already wasted enough time hunting your Americano-drinking ass down.” He gives Steve another significant sort of look, turns away, then back again. “Oh, and Cap?”

Steve looks up.

“Congratulations.” He gives Steve an odd sort of half-smile before sweeping out, silhouette framed for a moment in the doorway before he’s gone.

And Steve’s left with a half-finished sketch of Tony’s tower, a slowly-cooling drink, and his own noisy thoughts. “Well, hell,” he says aloud, and barely refrains from dropping his head onto the table.

+

“Hey, Jarvis. What’ve you got for me?” Tony watches the elevator doors close and leans against the wall as he is carried upwards.

“Welcome home, sir.” Jarvis’s voice is clear over the speakers. “There are eight new articles since this morning, two primarily regarding the newest StarkPhone, one debating the current effects of your previous relationship with Mr. McPherson, and five concerning the Avengers. Your appointment with Dr. Currin from Research and Development has been postponed, new date pending. An invitation has arrived for the Sidewalk Angels benefit next month; as per Ms. Potts’s approved list I have sent your acceptance and added it to your calendar. And the diagnostics for the GranCabrio are completed. I trust your meeting at SHIELD went well.”

Tony snorts as the elevator doors glide open and he steps out into the penthouse. “As well as they ever do. The team will likely all be moving in over the next couple days, not positive when, exactly, except for Rogers – he’ll be here within a few hours. We’re getting married.” He collapses down onto one of the couches, just for a minute.

There’s a pause, then, “Married, sir?”

“Yes. Joined in holy matrimony, wedded bliss, SHIELD-sanctioned posing for the paparazzi.”

“With Captain Rogers, sir?”

“Apparently this is the solution to all of our media problems.”

“Of course, sir. May I offer my most sincere congratulations? You must be thrilled.”

“What?” Tony frowns. “No. No! No congratulations. Fake marriage, J.”

There’s another pause. “I don’t understand,” Jarvis says. “I was given to believe your regard for the Captain was genuine.”

Tony chokes. “My what?”

“You always speak very highly of Captain Rogers.”

“Pretty sure I was calling him an ass, just last night, after he –”

“Affectionately, sir.”

That shuts Tony up.

“You did say that it was unfair for a man of his aesthetic appeal to be a decent human being as well.”

“I did _not_ say ‘aesthetic appeal.’”

“No, but it seemed more tactful than directly quoting that you would ‘bang him like a screen door in a hurricane.’” Jarvis’s voice is prim.

Tony manages not to bury his face in his hands, realizes only Jarvis can see, and gives in to the urge. “This is a bad idea,” he tells his palms.

“Perfectly in line with your usual course, then, sir,” Jarvis points out.

“Not my idea,” Tony retorts.

“Of course not, sir.”

“Sass,” Tony mutters. “All I get is sass. It was _his_ idea, not mine, I had nothing to do with it.”

There’s a split-second pause before Jarvis says, almost hesitantly, “Captain Rogers proposed?”

Tony groans. “No, J. He did not _propose_. I did not _propose_. There was no _proposing_. Fury wanted to put us in time-out for bitching at each other in public, because _the public_ is now convinced our dear Captain is full of judgment for anyone not flying the straight-and-narrow. We needed to troubleshoot. He suggested we tell people we were arguing about picking out curtains, or china patterns, or wedding venues, and the Powers That Be decided we would have to _actually_ pick out a wedding venue, so I get a roommate tonight and a ball-and-chain next weekend. Don’t be jealous, you’re still my favorite.”

“I wouldn’t dream of imagining otherwise, sir.” There’s another pause. “The Captain made his suggestion in spite of knowing your regard?”

“There’s nothing to know, J,” Tony snaps, then takes a deep breath. It’s not Jarvis’s fault Tony’s infatuated and doesn’t filter himself when he’s not in public. “It’s a crush. I’ll get over it. He doesn’t know, and he’s not _going_ to know, because I am not going to tell him, and _you_ are not going to tell him. You are not going to tell him _anything_.”

“But, sir –”

“Not a thing, Jarvis. That’s a direct order. I don’t want this getting any more awkward than it is, we’re already pushing disaster levels, here, without further complications. I’ll get over it, and I’ll deal with it in private until I do.”

“Yes, sir.” Jarvis sounds rebellious. It should probably be at least a little worrying.

“Great. Wonderful. Glad that’s settled.”

Jarvis doesn’t respond.

Tony sighs and pushes himself to his feet, goes to pour himself a healthy measure of bourbon. “Don’t be in a snit,” he says, swallows half the drink in one go. “It’s not like I planned this. I didn’t get up this morning thinking, ‘oh! I know! I’ll piss Fury off today and marry a national goddamned icon to fix it!’” Tony empties the glass and pours another. “This is not,” he stares at the amber liquid for a moment, swirls it around, but doesn’t drink. “This is not going to be easy. I am aware of that. I know my track record. I know _our_ track record. And this is going to suck as much for him as for me, and I’d rather not have my inconvenient teenaged crush paraded around making things worse for both of us. I need you to have my back on this, J.”

“I always do, sir,” Jarvis replies, tone soft and sincere.

“Right. Well. Thanks,” Tony says, clears his throat. “Just. Just make sure he has clearance for everything. We can set up access for the others later, when we know what they’re doing.”

“Consider it done,” Jarvis says.

“Great. The GranCabrio was ready, you said? Let’s build an engine.” Tony leaves his unfinished drink on the bar and heads for the elevator. He figures he can get in at least a couple solid hours in the workshop before he has to go hold hands and play nice for the cameras. Thinking about something that is not Steve Rogers sounds like a fantastic idea right now.

+

“Welcome home, Captain,” Jarvis’s voice greets him as the elevator doors open into the penthouse. “Your personal effects have been placed in the third room to the left.”

“Thank you,” Steve replies automatically, turning down the hall. “Where is Tony?”

“Sir is in his workshop,” Jarvis responds, and, when Steve looks around, half expecting signs, adds, “Sir’s workshop is sublevel C, below the Tower.”

Steve blinks, then returns to the elevator. “Will this take me there?” he asks.

“You have been granted clearance to any level,” Jarvis says crisply, which could be a yes, Steve thinks, though Jarvis’s voice sounds almost. Disapproving? He’s not sure a computer can be disapproving. The doors swish open again and Steve steps inside. They snap closed right on his heels, and the elevator drops, Steve’s stomach jumping with the descent, before coming to an abrupt halt. He’s pretty sure the trip up hadn’t been quite so swift, but given the way Tony flies, he’s not particularly surprised he’d design an elevator that plummets like a carnival ride.

The doors slide open to a short hallway ending in a glass wall. There doesn’t seem to be a door. Steve approaches carefully, fascinated by the floating blue lights he can see on the other side. He doesn’t see Tony, but he leans closer to the glass, trying to decipher what the lights – holographic images, Steve reminds himself – are forming. He doesn’t realize he’s pressed his hand to the glass until Jarvis’s voice says, “Print recognized: Captain Steven Grant Rogers. Please enter access code, Captain.”

“Um, I don’t –” Steve trails off, staring at the keypad that’s appeared next to his palm.

“Voice recognition: Captain Steven Grant Rogers,” Jarvis says, then repeats, slightly slower this time, “Please enter access code, Captain.”

Steve gets the feeling Tony’s AI thinks he’s less than bright. “Tony didn’t tell me my access code,” he says, tries not to sound defensive. “Can you just. Ask him if I can come in?”

There’s a pause that is probably only a second or two, but feels far longer and full of computerized judgment. “Alerting Sir to your presence, Captain,” is what Jarvis finally says, and a moment later one of the panels of glass swings outwards, accompanied by a wall of noise.

Steve flinches, braces himself, and steps through the door. “Tony?” he calls, then again, louder. Tony doesn’t answer. Steve moves farther into the room, which looks like nothing so much as a futuristic car garage, and calls Tony’s name a third time.

A whirring noise sounds under the blaring guitars and screaming vocals, and then something pokes Steve sharply in the back. He spins, hands coming up automatically, only to find himself face to face with a long robotic arm with pincers for fingers. The thing chirps at him, and Steve takes half a step back.

“Um, hello?” he says, carefully.

The arm chirps again. Steve’s not quite sure where the sound is coming from.

“That is DUM-E,” Jarvis’s voice is pitched to carry under the music. “He is unused to strangers in Sir’s private space.”

“Oh,” Steve feels his face heat up slightly and hopes he’s not flushing. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Dummy, I’m Steve.” He holds out a hand automatically, and immediately feels foolish. “Uh –”

Dummy’s claw closes delicately around Steve’s hand and he shakes it up and down, before whistling brightly and tugging Steve towards the far end of the workshop, where there’s a row of brightly colored sports cars. A pair of legs in what were very nice slacks only a few hours ago stick out from under the third car from the end. Dummy lets go of Steve’s hand, clicks his pincers, and rolls off, somehow managing to move with dignified purpose.

Uncertain of another option for getting Tony’s attention over the music, Steve crouches down and shakes one of the protruding legs by the ankle.

Both legs jerk, there’s a dull, semi-metallic _thunk_ and the sound of cursing from under the car, and then the music cuts out and Tony rolls into view on a creeper, clutching his head. He squints up at Steve. “What the hell?”

Steve winces. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you bleeding?”

“Am I bleeding?” Tony’s eyes go even more squinty.  “What are you doing here?”

“I.” Steve stops, not quite sure how to answer that. “I’m moved in?” It comes out as more of a question than he meant it to.

“Jarvis could have told me that,” Tony points out. He takes his hand away from his head and inspects it.

Steve’s fingers itch to check Tony’s skull for damage, but he’s pretty sure that wouldn’t go over so well. He stands up and puts his hands in his pockets. “We have a dinner reservation at eight,” he says. “We’re meant to be photographed, I believe.”

“Right,” Tony looks up from his hand. “Jarvis, make a note.”

“Noted, sir,” Jarvis replies. “Ms. Potts has already added it to your calendar, along with the usual alerts for you to ignore at your convenience.”

Tony mutters something that sounds like _sass_ , and then looks pointedly at Steve. “We good here?” It’s eerily reminiscent of Fury.

“I suppose,” Steve hedges. He thinks they should probably talk, figure out what they need to be doing on their end, maybe, if anything needs doing that hasn’t already been planned out for them, maybe set some ground rules for sharing the apartment, private space.

“Great,” Tony says. “See you at dinner, then.” He gives the ground a kick, and slides back under the car. The music blares to life again around them.

Steve suppresses a sigh. “I’ll just see myself out, then,” he says to no one, and turns back towards the door in the glass wall and the elevator beyond.

“I have taken the liberty of calling the lift for you, Captain,” Jarvis says.

Steve grits his teeth and doesn’t answer.

+

Tony is tinkering with a ’39 Bullet diagram, caught up in the balance between modernized capabilities and original design, when the music in the shop cuts out, announcing Pepper’s presence.

“Please don’t turn off my music,” he mutters, doesn’t even bother to speak loudly enough for her to ignore.

“Tony, you need to change,” Pepper picks her way across the floor towards him, avoiding an ankle-high pyramid of nuts of varying gages, half a Ducati engine, Dummy, and two circuit boards with the ease of long practice.

Tony doesn’t look away from the diagram, but adopts a hurt tone, anyway. “I thought you liked me just the way I am.”

“Nothing fancy, but please find something that’s not covered in grease.” Tony can see her judging him out of the corner of his eye. “And maybe take a shower, so _you_ are not covered in grease.”

“I like being covered in grease.”

“Tony,” Pepper sighs. “I know this is hard for you. I know this is the last thing you want to be doing. But something needs to be done, and you agreed to this –”

Tony spins in his chair to face her. “I did not agree to this!”

“– so you are just going to have to deal with it,” Pepper says over him. “Look,” she says, softer, “I’m on your side, here, if there are any sides to be on. This isn’t what I would wish for you. Maybe if we hadn’t –”

“Don’t,” Tony stops her, and this is more important than any justified but ultimately useless argument he was going to try to make. “Don’t do that. It wasn’t working. And this has nothing to do with us. I’m just glad we figured ourselves out early enough that you weren’t dragged into everything with –” he cuts himself off, doesn’t want to finish that thought. “That you won’t be dragged into this,” he says instead. “Any more than you have to be, anyway.” He offers a wry smile.

Pepper sighs again, then clears her throat and straightens her shoulders. “Go shower,” she says, stern again. “Put on clean clothes. Go to dinner. Hold hands with your fiancé. Try not to kill each other. Captain Rogers will meet you at the restaurant, but you are to come home together. Several someones will take pictures of you inside on their phones and upload them to the internet, so look cozy, but no need to overdo it. Paparazzi will be outside waiting for you when you leave, so look like you’re pretending to be casual. If you can get caught by the press letting go of each other as you walk out the door that would be ideal, but the timing might be tricky, and there are a lot of factors with that sort of thing.”

“Just do what I usually do, then?” Tony asks.

Pepper glares. “If you even _think_ about doing what you usually do, I will leave you to handle the outcome on your own.”

Tony grins.

“I mean it, Tony,” Pepper’s glare intensifies. “If I find out you’ve ended up in a hot tub with triplets –”

“That was once!” Tony protests.

“– or have had this restaurant turned into an S&M club –”

“Completely blown out of proportion.”

“– or, or go bungee jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge –”

“Pep, calm down.” Tony grabs Pepper by the shoulders, gives her a little shake. “I was teasing. And I never went bungee jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge, Tracy decided San Francisco was too far away –”

“Tricia,” Pepper corrects automatically.

“– and you know I’m not a fan of bungee jumping, anyway. I have no control over the fall or snap.”

Pepper narrows her eyes a little bit more, and visibly restrains herself from launching back into it. “Shower,” she says firmly. She steps back out of his hold and makes shooing gestures with her hands.

Tony sighs, tamps down the urge to try to further delay the inevitable, and allows Pepper to chivvy him out of the workshop, up to the penthouse – there’s no sign of Steve – and into the shower. He can hear her rustling through his clothes in the walk-in closet.

“I can dress myself,” he says loudly.

Pepper hums noncommittally, but otherwise ignores him. It’s not particularly comforting.

Briefly, Tony contemplates just staying in the shower. But Pepper has proved more than once that something as minor as Tony’s nudity will not keep her from doing her job, and he’s not really up to fighting with her sans pants, right now.

“I suppose you’ll do,” Pepper concedes when Tony finally turns to her, fully dressed down to the cufflinks in clothing she’d laid out for him. She eyes him critically for another minute, then shrugs. “Yes, you’ll do.

Tony refrains from rolling his eyes. “So glad you approve.”

“Don’t get smart,” Pepper warns, starts herding him towards the elevator.

“I’m always smart,” Tony tells her, tries on a grin.

“You’re also stalling,” Pepper informs him tartly, gives him a little shove. “Now go. Jarvis has the address.”

Tony gives her a mock salute and steps into the elevator. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“And no dawdling!” Pepper half-yells, half-laughs after him as the doors close, the sound following him down to the garage.

Tony barely hesitates before taking the Spyder, and if he doesn’t speed quite as much as he usually does, he’s just being safety conscious, not dawdling. He has no reason to dawdle. It’s just a date. It’s not even a _real_ date. Even if it is with Captain America. Tony rolls his eyes at his internal angsting teenager and gives himself a firm mental shake as he pulls up outside the restaurant. He tosses the keys to the waiting valet, every inch the public face of Tony Stark, and saunters inside like he owns the place.

In spite of Pepper playing time-keeper, Steve’s already there, easy to spot the moment Tony clears the entryway, even sitting in the back, in a quiet, not-quite-secluded corner of the restaurant. He sees Tony a moment later and rises, takes an aborted half-step forward, like he’s going to pull Tony’s chair out and thinks better of it, and ends up standing almost at parade rest while he waits.

It’s not fair, Tony thinks vaguely, that Steve can look so casually classy in khakis and a button-down shirt, when anyone else would just look like someone’s grandfather. His stomach twists a little as he gets closer, sees the awkward half-smile Steve is wearing, and he tells it firmly that he’s not that hungry, it doesn’t need to start acting up.

“Cap,” he says, flashes his best photo-op smile.

Steve’s smile widens to something that looks just as practiced as Tony’s. “Tony,” he nods, and waits until Tony has sat down before he sits again.

A server appears almost before Steve is fully in his chair, two bottles of wine in hand. “Red or white to start this evening, Mr. Stark?”

“Red for me,” Tony tells him. “Did you want a wine list?” he asks Steve. “Or something else?”

“No,” Steve has that look on his face that means he’s decided not to ask. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“Of course, sir.” The server flips one of the appropriate glasses over and pours a sample for Tony, who automatically tries it and waves for the man to continue. He recites the specials as he pours, provides them with menus, and vanishes as silently as he arrived.

Steve looks perfectly at ease, and a little like he’s going to start trying to sell Tony war bonds. It’s fairly impressive.

“I don’t know if I should be getting out my checkbook or trying to sign up for Basic,” Tony says, figures someone’s got to say something to prevent this being completely unbearable.

Steve frowns slightly. “What?”

“Your… you,” Tony gestures at Steve, trying to encompass his Steve-ness. He’s probably not particularly successful. “You look like your old propaganda posters, minus the stars and stripes.”

“I’m… sorry?” It comes out as a slightly bemused question.

Tony waves it off. “Just proves the posters work.”

Steve’s smile looks a little more real at that. “I designed some of them,” he admits.

“I always forget you’re an artist,” Tony says, which, well, it’s not exactly a lie, but it’s not quite the truth, either.

Steve shrugs. “Not something that comes up a whole lot. And I haven’t drawn professionally since I made it over to Europe.”

Not surprising, but. “Do you want to?”

“Draw professionally?” Steve asks, looks like he’s considering for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “I haven’t thought about it in years.” He smiles a little ruefully, and, “Well, decades,” he corrects himself. “Since before the war. Even when I was doing it for the war effort it was just to be doing something useful, it wasn’t what I wanted to be doing.”

“What about before that?” Tony asks, and he’s genuinely interested, hopes Steve realizes that, and doesn’t think Tony’s mocking him. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I’d hoped to,” Steve says, doesn’t sound like he’s taking Tony’s word at anything but face value. It’s. Nice. “It’s what I went to school for. Not really the best way to make a living, especially then, but. I loved it.”

“Past tense?”

Steve shakes his head. “No. But it’s different now. Comforting, I guess. Something to do with my hands. I don’t even know what I’m drawing half the time. It’s like running, I guess. Good way to clear the mind.”

“Just drawing?”

“Mostly. Cheaper than paints, and easier to take with you. Did some interesting courses in school with different media. I liked oils. Charcoal was a lot of fun, but messy. My mother was always threatening to make me do my own laundry.”

Tony grins. “She sounds like a classy lady.”

“She was,” Steve’s smile is a little wistful. “She was a nurse. Used to bossing people around for their own good. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. If she wanted something, she got it done. She used to catch me sketching when I was little. Stubs of pencils and corners of old newspapers, whatever I could get my hands on. I never would have gone to college if she hadn’t decided I was going to do it. She said one of us should do something fun with life, and she spent all her time on the wards.”

“She didn’t like nursing?”

“Oh, she loved it. Wouldn’t have given it up for anything. But it wasn’t _fun_.”

Tony can see that, he thinks. He can also see the look on Steve’s face, and while he’s glad the other man is opening up, he thinks maybe this isn’t the place for this specific path down memory lane. “Did you have fun taking art classes?” he asks instead, “Did she get her wish? Or was it just a lot of fruit baskets?”

“We didn’t really have a whole lot of spare fruit in the thirties,” Steve points out. “Nothing interesting anyway. Some prop pieces.” Steve considers for a moment.   
“Furniture, sometimes. Cityscapes. Did a course on nudes, once,” he adds thoughtfully, and Tony almost chokes on his sip of wine. Steve smirks. “That sort of thing.”

“You’re dangerous,” Tony tells him, can’t quite keep the admiration out of his tone.

“A menace to society,” Steve agrees sadly, hanging his head in shame. It doesn’t do much to hide the wicked glint in his eyes, or the way his mouth keeps trying to twitch back into a grin. “I’ve been told.”

Tony laughs, can’t help it, and Steve blinks at him, startled, and his grin breaks out full force. It’s nothing like the bond salesman smile. Tony feels his breath hitch, forces a cough to cover it, and reaches for his wineglass again. He is so fucked.

“This isn’t so bad,” Steve says, gestures slightly between them.

“No,” Tony admits, and thankfully doesn’t have to elaborate as the server returns to take their orders.

+

Steve comes awake abruptly, completely disoriented, and instinctively holds very still, not even opening his eyes. There’s no street noise, and while the bed he’s in is perfectly comfortable, it’s not _his_ bed. He’s not on the Helicarrier, either – the air quality isn’t right for it and he can’t hear the engines at all – but he can’t think for a long minute where else he would be, and for half a second he has the horrifying thought that it’s happened _again_ , and then he remembers. Stark Tower. He’s in Tony’s penthouse apartment in Stark Tower. The meeting, the move, the dinner date, relaxing for once to friendly jokes instead of bracing for harsh jibes, walking out of the restaurant with the barest pressure of Tony’s fingers against the small of his back, the flashbulbs going off in their faces before they even hit the pavement.

Slowly, Steve draws several deep breaths, opens his eyes, takes in the shadowy outlines of unfamiliar furniture.

“Right,” he says softly. “Right.” This is home. For now. He takes another deep breath, trying to fix the thought in his mind, and pushes himself up. “Lights,” he tells himself, needing the directive, and gropes for the lamp next to the bed. It flares to life before he can make contact and he jerks back. “What the hell?”

“Sorry, Captain,” Jarvis’s voice seems like it’s coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, even though Steve _knows_ there must be speakers somewhere. “Did you not require light?”

Steve gives himself a mental shake. “No, I did,” he replies carefully.

“Perhaps the overhead lighting would be preferable?” Jarvis inquires. “Or natural lighting from the windows? Sir believed you would appreciate the curtains he had installed, however, if you are so inclined, the opacity of the glass may be adjusted to suit your needs.”

“The curtains are fine,” Steve answers. “And the lamp.” He slides out of bed and pads over to the windows, tugs the curtains back.

Bright sunlight floods in, and, with it, the view of Manhattan, spread out below him like a child’s mess of a patchwork quilt.

“Damn,” Steve breathes, takes half an automatic step forward, leaning in to see the street outside the Tower, and hits the glass. “Ow, shit,” he rubs his head where it had collided with the window, and turns to scowl at the room at large. “No comments from the peanut gallery,” he says a little more loudly.

There’s a slight rasping noise that might be computerized laughter, but when Jarvis speaks, his voice is as dry as ever. “Of course not, Captain.”

Steve can’t help the slight smile that quirks his mouth, turns back to the windows as if that would help hide it.

The view is breathtaking. It’s not awe-inspiring like some of the things he’s seen – the Alps, the Grand Canyon, deserts and oceans as far as the eye can see – but this, this manmade mess, it’s home, and from this high up, he can see all of it, the shining spires and the shadows holding them up.

It’s a while before Steve can tear himself away.

Eventually, he gives himself a mental shake, and goes to get ready for a run.

“Is Tony awake, yet?” Steve asks while he dresses, thinks maybe he could grab some bagels for them on his way back. He didn’t see much in the way of breakfast foods when he explored the kitchen the evening before.

“Sir is in his workshop,” Jarvis responds promptly.

“Has he eaten already?”

“For a given definition of ‘eaten’.” Jarvis somehow manages to sound bland and long-suffering at the same time. “Sir had a smoothie at approximately half-four this morning.”

Steve pauses halfway through tying his laces. “Half-four? You mean four-thirty? In the morning? How long did he sleep?”

“When are you enquiring about, Captain?”

Steve blinks. “When was the last time he slept?”

“Sir slept for approximately three-quarters of an hour earlier this morning, twice that some three hours prior –”

“When was the last time he did more than nap?” Steve clarifies, cutting Jarvis off.

There’s a pause. “What is your definition of ‘nap’?”

Steve finishes tying his laces while he thinks. “When was the last time Tony slept more than eight hours straight through when he wasn’t sick or recovering from something?” he asks eventually.

“May 19th, 2008,” Jarvis responds promptly.

And Steve. Steve doesn’t know what to do with that. “2008?” he repeats.

“Yes, Captain.”

“But that’s –” _Before I woke up,_ sounds ridiculous, even in Steve’s head.

“You did specify eight hours straight through,” Jarvis comments.

“When was –” Steve starts again, but Jarvis interrupts.

“May I ask towards what these enquiries tend, Captain?” There’s a slight edge of something Steve can’t quite place in Jarvis’s voice.

Steve takes a breath, lets it out. “Nothing, Jarvis,” he says after a moment. “Just concern for a – for a teammate.” He stands and heads out towards the elevators. “Would he eat a bagel if I brought one back for him, do you think?”

“Sir is partial to blueberries,” Jarvis replies. He sounds a little stiff, but Steve can never quite be sure if he’s imagining things like that, or if maybe it’s the accent.

But blueberries. Steve can work with blueberries.

He thanks Jarvis, and takes the elevator down, steadies himself against the drop. Outside, the light is a little less brilliant at street level than it was in the penthouse, the sun partially obscured by the buildings, but it’s still a beautiful day, the sidewalks busy in spite of the early hour.

Steve heads north, figures he can run through Central Park for a while and pick up food on his way back, and lets his mind clear down to the air in his lungs and the steady beat of his sneakers on the pavement. It’s relaxing, almost meditative, and a couple hours pass before he notices how late it’s getting and returns to the Tower.

“Is Tony still in his workshop?” Steve asks, once he’s passed the security guards at the side entrance and is alone in the elevator again.

“The Avengers are assembling around the breakfast bar,” Jarvis tells him, and Steve blinks in surprise.

“The Avengers?”

“Yes, Captain. And Ms. Potts.”

Steve relaxes minutely. It’s unlikely Ms. Potts would be present if there had been an alarm. “Thank you, Jarvis,” he says automatically. “Nothing too serious, I hope?”

“I couldn’t say, Captain,” Jarvis replies, which sounds vaguely foreboding, but at least not as if another alien invasion is imminent.

“Right.” Steve thanks Jarvis again as he steps off the elevator, and follows the low murmur of voices down the hall into the penthouse kitchen.

There’s no sign of Thor, of course, but Coulson is there, and Ms. Potts, and the rest of the Avengers, as promised.

It’s a little odd seeing Clint and Natasha in street clothes, especially next to Coulson’s crisp suit and Ms. Potts’s neat skirt and blouse, but there’s something comfortable about it, all the same. Banner seems more relaxed than Steve thinks he’s ever seen him, hair still sleep-rumpled, drinking tea, and nodding at something Natasha is saying. Tony looks like he wandered up from the workshop, stripped down to a grease-streaked undershirt and still wearing what Steve is pretty sure are the pants from the night before. From what Jarvis said earlier, Steve thinks it’s probably a safe guess that Tony slept down there. Or didn’t sleep, as the case may be.

Banner looks up from whatever he’s discussing with Natasha and sees Steve standing in the doorway. “Morning, Cap. Good run?”

“Yeah,” Steve steps into the room. “Nice weather. Bagels?” He puts the bag on the bar, glad he got the full dozen, and relieved he hadn’t pushed himself hard enough to be sweating much.

There’s a flurry of motion as everyone finds plates and knives and passes the little tubs of cream cheese around. Ms. Potts manages to tuck the folders she and Coulson were flipping through into her impressively large purse before any food gets on them.

“There’s blueberry in there for you,” Steve tells Tony, who is still leaning against the far counter, a coffee mug in one hand and a slightly bemused expression on his face.

Tony raises an eyebrow.

“Jarvis said you like blueberries.” Steve isn’t quite sure why he’s feeling defensive, why Tony can get under his skin without even saying anything, but he doesn’t much like the feeling.

The other eyebrow goes up. “Of course he did.”

“Do you not –”

“No, I do.” Tony pauses, looks like he’s considering, and then, “Thanks.”

Steve blinks. “You’re welcome,” he says automatically, isn’t quite sure what to make of anything right now.

“Tony,” Ms. Potts is holding a plate with a blueberry bagel already sliced and spread with more cream cheese than can be considered healthy. “Come, sit, eat.” She gestures with her free hand at one of the vacant stools, and Tony, surprisingly, does as told, taking the plate from her with a grin. “You, too, Captain,” she points imperiously at another stool. “We’re planning.”

“That sounds ominous,” Banner remarks.

“You have no idea,” Tony tells him, then gives Ms. Potts a cheeky half-smile when she narrows her eyes at him.

Coulson clears his throat in a way that should be unassuming, but somehow makes everyone sit up and turn to him. “Thank you,” he says, once he has everyone’s attention. “We’ll try to make this as quick and painless as possible, and then you can return to your regularly scheduled morning pursuits.”

Steve sits and starts in on his bagel.

“Everything’s moving along well,” Coulson continues. “The wedding seems to be in hand. We’re scheduled for Sunday afternoon. Colonel Rhodes has been granted personal leave time, but won’t be able to get here until Saturday night. In the meantime, we’re going to continue the subtle approach, and let the public do the work of putting everything together.”

“Pictures from last night are already circulating,” Ms. Potts adds. “Jarvis, if you would,” she taps the counter, and a series of photos appears above the bagels.

The first few pictures are from inside the restaurant, darker shots with the slightly grainy quality Steve has been learning to associate with camera phones. They show him sitting with Tony at their table, talking, smiling, one of Tony laughing, and then a pair from different angles – must have been from two different tables nearby – of the two of them leaning in a bit over the last of the dessert, fingers linked on the tabletop. One of the photos even has their hands circled, with an enlarged inset.

The rest of the photos are clearly paparazzi shots from when they left the restaurant. There wouldn’t be anything particularly remarkable about them out of context, but in conjunction with the pictures from inside, it’s more noticeable how close together they’re standing when they first come through the door, the hand Tony had placed at the small of Steve’s back, and then the careful distance between them when they’d seen all the photographers.

Clint whistles through his teeth. “I’d buy it.”

Natasha snorts, but doesn’t dispute it.

“Speculation only, at this point,” Ms. Potts tells them. “Which is good. The idea is for things like this –” she waves at the images still floating above the remains of everyone’s breakfast “– to look somewhere between a slip-up and lucky camera work. None of the major sources have put these two sets together, yet, it’s all just the usual fuss over Tony, heightened by the fact that it’s a known Avenger he’s in public with.”

Steve glances at Tony, but the other man is watching Ms. Potts, munching steadily on the bagel in his hand, seemingly unperturbed.

“All that will hopefully change tomorrow,” Ms. Potts goes on. “Date number two is going to be very obviously a date.” She gives Tony a stern look, then turns it on Steve when Tony just stares back. “The press will likely come to SI first, looking for a comment, which we won’t give them. However, someone is going to _accidentally_ leak the information.”

“A source close to the happy couple?” Natasha asks.

Coulson’s mouth twitches. “Is it ever anyone else?”

Natasha’s lips give an answering twitch.

“So it’s just an ‘Oops, you caught us, no one was supposed to know anything until after the wedding’?” Banner asks.

Coulson nods. “Just a small, quiet ceremony. Close friends only. No fuss.”

Clint frowns. “Will anyone buy that Stark wants a small, quiet ceremony?”

“They’ll buy that Captain Rogers does, and Tony would do anything for the love of his life, right, Tony?” Ms. Potts gives Tony a significant-looking eyebrow raise. He grins back, bright like he does for the cameras.

“Even not flaunting it in front of the press?” Clint persists. He glances at Tony, then at Ms. Potts. “He doesn’t really do subtle.”

“He managed to keep McPherson a secret for a decade and a half,” Natasha points out. She sounds vaguely put out about it, like it was a personal offense.

Steve thinks he’s the only one to see Tony wince.

Coulson waves it off, now flipping through a stack of files he’s cleared space on the table for. “That can be one of the things they’ve been arguing about,” he says. “Which is, after all, the purpose behind all of this.” He pulls a folder from the pile to pass to Ms. Potts.

Ms. Potts takes the folder, but doesn’t open it. “Given Tony’s track record and Captain Rogers’s reputation – sorry, Captain – it would seem like a good idea to keep things private, even after an engagement. It would make sense not to publicize it and have it destroyed by the media.” She looks at Tony, who shrugs, and she goes on, though her voice tightens. “Trent McPherson is a perfect example of why relationships don’t need to be flaunted about, not only while he was actively in Tony’s life, but immediately following, and everything that’s been going on lately.”

“What did happen with Trent McPherson?” Steve asks. “It can’t have been the media, or it wouldn’t be such big news now.”

“Irreconcilable differences,” Tony says shortly. He looks pointedly between Ms. Potts and Coulson. “Can we wrap this up? I was in the middle of something downstairs. Several somethings, in fact.”

Coulson passes another folder to Natasha, and starts piling the rest together again while he answers. “You’re going on a date tomorrow to make it obvious you are, in fact, dating, in such a way that the press will think they’ve caught you out. The information will be leaked on Friday that you are, more to the point, engaged, to be followed that evening by another date, minus the subterfuge. The wedding on Sunday will be small, quiet, and tasteful, and when the press finds out on Monday that it has already happened while they were chasing their tails trying to find every public image of the two of you within shouting distance of each other, that is exactly what they will hear. The wedding pictures will be sold for charity – ONE Campaign and the Trevor Project appreciate your donation. From that point on, you will be very much the picture of a honeymooning celebrity couple. You will appear at every benefit and society opening and charity gala holding hands with smiles on your faces. If anyone asks, you are blissfully happy. And everyone else,” he looks around at everyone, “is blissfully happy for you.”

“I was rooting for you two crazy kids from the start,” Clint puts in, and then jerks, slams his knee on the underside of the table. “The hell, Nat?” he swears, rubbing at his knee.

“Sorry,” Banner says blandly. “That was me. Old tick, you know.”

Clint turns a baleful glare on Banner.

“And that’s the gist of it,” Coulson says before Clint can retaliate. “Agent Romanov, if you can get those –” he nods at the folder he’d handed her “– back to Ms. Potts sometime tomorrow, they can go to the Stark Industries lawyers first thing Friday after the news has broken, so we can get them signed before the wedding.”

“Of course,” Natasha nods, smacks Clint’s hand when he tries to reach for the folder. “Do you want to do the paperwork?” she asks.

Clint pulls his hand back against his chest. “No, I’m good.”

“That’s what I thought,” she tells him, then, to Ms. Potts, “I’ll look over it now.”

“Thank you,” Ms. Potts smiles. “There are a couple twitchy bits, and I’d like to have it set to sign before we hand it off to legal, since they’ll have so little time with it.”

“If that’s sorted, then we’re all done here,” Coulson says, picking up his pile of papers in one hand, and his breakfast plate in the other. “See you all in a few days.” He puts the plate in the sink, and then vanishes down the hallway to the elevator.

Coulson and the food both gone, the meeting breaks up, everyone piling their dishes in the sink. Banner takes his tea with him, Clint grabs the last bagel, and they both wander towards the elevator.

Steve fiddles with the remains of his breakfast, hoping to catch Tony on the way out, but Ms. Potts, who had been having what looked like a very intense conversation with Natasha, swoops in, looping her arm through Tony’s, and steers him out of the room and farther into the apartment without a glance in Steve’s direction, leaving just him and Natasha in the kitchen. He glances at her, about to say he’ll see her around, and blinks at the way she’s watching him, face its usual blank mask, but somehow managing to give off more Don’t Mess With Me vibes than usual.

“I admire what you’re trying to do, here, Cap,” she says, no pretense at small talk. “We all do. Taking one for the team. It’s a noble thing you’re doing, and it won’t be easy. Tony is a handful, though if anyone can handle him, it would be you.”

Steve opens his mouth – to, what, thank her? He has no idea – and shuts it again when he realizes she’s not finished.

“We’re all proud of you, and of Tony, for going through this – I don’t know that I could, were I in your situation – and we all appreciate what it means. But that does not mean any one of us is blind to the situation. I know how difficult Tony can be, and that many of us may not seem to, but we do have his best interests at heart.”

“Of course…” Steve says, prompting, feeling a little baffled.

“You’re a smart guy, Cap,” Natasha says eventually, when Steve doesn’t say anything further. “I would hate to see anything happen to that.” She watches him blandly for another moment, as if watching as he tries to process what she’s just said, then nods her head politely, and walks out of the room.

Steve continues to stand in the middle of the kitchen for several long moments, alone, staring at the pile of plates in the sink, trying to figure out what on earth just happened.

+

It takes three reminders from Jarvis and two only-semi-irate phone calls from Pepper to get Tony out of the workshop the next morning with strict instructions to shower before showing up to the lunch meeting he’s _absolutely required_ to attend with the board. He’s halfway across the kitchen en route to his bedroom before he realizes he has company.

“Uh,” he says eloquently, blinking in some confusion at Natasha and Barton sitting at the breakfast bar in workout clothes, plates of eggs and giant cups of coffee in front of them.

“Morning,” Barton says around a mouthful of eggs, impressively managing not to spray food in all directions.

“Morning,” Tony responds automatically, then, “Why are you in my kitchen?”

Natasha swallows her bite before speaking. “We moved in yesterday after the meeting.”

Tony waits, but there doesn’t seem to be anything further coming. “And?” he prompts.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “And we were hungry?”

“You have your own kitchens,” Tony points out.

“And?” Natasha’s mimicked intonation is not lost on Tony.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t leave sweatmarks on my chairs,” he tells them, and leaves before he can get sucked into an argument about privacy and kitchen rights.

“Bet he didn’t tell _Cap_ not to leave sweatmarks,” Tony hears Barton say as he retreats down the hallway, followed by a muffled thump and a curse. He rolls his eyes again, even though there’s no one to see this time, and pointedly does not slam his bedroom door.

“Thing One and Thing Two are _not_ allowed access to anything but the kitchen and living room on this level without express permission, Jarvis,” he says while he strips and gets into the shower. “And keep them out of my workshop.”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis responds promptly. “Are there any other permissions you wish to assign with this newest influx of housemates?”

Tony scrubs at his hair. “They can do what they want with their own apartments,” he says after a minute. “Keep them out of Bruce’s lab, though, unless he specifically says otherwise. That’s a safe space for him. Full access to all the gyms and conference rooms downstairs, just make sure they get – and pay attention to – the warning spiel if they want to use the training simulator. Pretty sure we don’t carry minced superhero insurance. Maybe have Pepper look into that?”

“I shall make a note for Ms. Potts,” Jarvis’s voice is particularly dry. “Minced superhero insurance.”

Tony grins. “Thanks, J, you’re a peach.”

“I live to serve, sir.”

Tony snorts a laugh, and shuts off the water.

“And Captain Rogers?” Jarvis inquires.

“I’m sure he’d say he lives to serve, as well.” Tony rubs a towel over his head. “Isn’t that the military line? Though he’s pretty lousy at serving,” he muses. “Unless it’s something he already wanted to do.”

There’s a slight scratching noise – Jarvis’s solution to rolling his eyes. “Had you wanted to change access permissions for Captain Rogers, sir?”

“Oh,” Tony frowns. “No.” He digs through his drawers for socks and underwear. “He lives here, now, so he should be able to come and go.”

“The workshop?” Jarvis presses.

Tony takes a moment to button his shirt and fiddle with his cufflinks. “He won’t touch anything, it’s fine,” he says eventually.

There’s a silence that’s a little too long to be anything but judgey before Jarvis responds, “Of course, sir.”

“What did we say about being over-protective?”

“That I was not to enlighten Captain Rogers as to your genuine regard for his person,” Jarvis says, only a little stiffly.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Jarvis.”

“Sir?”

Tony opens his mouth to lecture – because this is not behavior he can condone – but he’s cut off by an alarm on the main speakers and his phone vibrating its way across his desk where he’d thrown it while he showered.

“Avengers alert, sir,” Jarvis announces, and pulls up security feeds and shaky cellphone footage on the holographic screens. “It would appear there are giant rodents holding several subway lines hostage.”

“Of course there are,” Tony sighs. He eyeballs the videos and still images while he finishes pulling on pants and stuffs his feet into the closest pair of shoes. “Where is everyone?”

“Agents Romanov and Barton have returned to their quarters and are equipping themselves. Captain Rogers is en route to the tower. Dr. Banner is in his lab, and wishes to speak with you.”

“Put him up,” Tony taps the air by one of the screens, and Bruce appears, looking only minorly ruffled. “Good morning, Cupcake.”

“I can’t reach Cap,” Bruce says, ignoring the greeting, “but tunnels and subways and the Other Guy don’t really mix.”

Point. “Stay here, keep an eye on the screens. Stay on comms, we’ll yell if anything gets above ground.”

Bruce’s shoulders drop half an inch or so. “Right. Cap?”

“In the lift,” Jarvis cuts in.

Tony rolls his eyes expressively at Bruce, who just raises an eyebrow. “I’ll tell him. Jarvis, get the kids up to the hangar when they’re suited up.” He salutes Bruce, and the screen goes dark as he heads for the landing pad and a suit.

Steve meets him in the hallway. “Jarvis says giant rats?” he’s unbuttoning his shirt while he walks, and it’s more of an act of willpower than it should be not to look.

“In the subway system. Bruce is going to stay here as backup –”

Steve is already nodding. “Keep Hulk out of it while we have hostages in an enclosed area. Do we have numbers?”

Tony stops at the doorway to Steve’s room, doesn’t follow him inside. “Jarvis will send you whatever we’ve got. Police reports are starting to come in, and SHIELD and Jarvis are crowdsourcing. I’ll meet you with Mr. and Mrs. Smith at the hangar.” He takes several steps backwards as Steve pulls the uniform out of a closet. “Only a couple minutes’ flight up to the Bronx, and we can get underground closer to the hold-up from there.”

Steve frowns, but sits to take his shoes off. “Ready for wheels’ up in five,” is all he says, and shrugs out of his shirt.

“Right.” Tony beats a hasty retreat back into the hallway and out to the landing pad. “On a scale of one to Hulk on a bad day, how upset is the Star-Spangled Man that he isn’t the one making the plan?” he asks Jarvis.

“Captain Rogers does not appear at all green, sir,” Jarvis replies dryly.

“Wonderful.” Tony holds out his arms for the suit, letting it wrap around him. He takes half a second to breathe, letting himself relax for just a moment as the faceplate comes down and the HUD lights up, and then he’s off, launching himself from the platform and circling down the runway into the hangar.

Barton and Natasha appear out of the elevator as Tony touches down, and Jarvis opens the ramp onto the quinjet.

“Did we know you had one of these in your house?” Barton asks, eyeing the bulk of the jet.

“Our house,” Natasha corrects, “and yes. He’s got another in the basement.”

Barton side-eyes her.

“It’s in pieces,” Tony offers.

Natasha gives him a look. “Ruin all my fun.”

“I’ll let you pilot.”

“Shot-gun,” Barton says immediately.

Tony rolls his eyes behind the facemask, contemplates lifting it for the full effect.

“What’re we all standing around for, waiting for takeout?” Steve asks, approaching rapidly as the elevator doors slide shut behind him.

“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.”

Steve’s frown is visible in spite of his mask, but he doesn’t say anything, just heads up the ramp into the jet. Something about the way he moves reminds Tony of nothing so much as an offended cat.

Tony rolls his eyes again, this time glad no one can see him, and gestures for Barton and Natasha to precede him into the jet.

Terrified shrieking is not a sound Tony ever wants to hear, but when they make it into the tunnels, he has to quash the urge to do a little shrieking himself. The rats – if they can be called rats – are roughly the size of mastiffs, and about as friendly as wolverines, beady red eyes glowing malevolently in the cheap underground lights.

“Holy rats, Batman,” Barton breathes, and then has to get three tranquilizer arrows into a single rat before it drops.

The rats aren’t clever, but they’re aggressive, and hard to take down. And they keep coming, swarming out of the tunnels. Tony knows they have to be coming from somewhere – they’re certainly not just coming out of the walls like regular rats – but they’ve got him and the gang pretty well pinned down, and he’s afraid to use anything more effective than the repulsors with civilians still trapped in the subway cars around them. At least the platforms have already cleared out, and the rats haven’t made it into any of the cars yet. Or made any move to get above ground.

SHIELD shows up nearly twenty minutes behind the Avengers themselves, and start trying to evacuate the subway cars.

“There’s a perimeter set up outside,” Coulson announces over the comms. “Agents are keeping foot traffic back, and a block has gone out to keep new subway cars from trying to get through.”

“Great.” There’s a clang as the shield bounces off a wall, and an unpleasant crunch from the rat it hits. Steve gives a satisfied huff. “Any idea where they’re coming from?”

“Working on it,” Coulson replies shortly. There’s a burst of gunfire reports, and a handful of human screams mixed with the grating screeches from the rats. “More cover for the evacuees would be good right about now.”

“I’ve got the B train,” Steve catches a rat on his shield, tosses it back into the wall with a thud. “Who’s got the 4?”

“On it,” Tony blasts at a rat leaping for Natasha’s perch in a maintenance alcove, and sweeps the tunnel. “Hawkeye?”

“On your eight,” Barton’s voice is exactly the sort of casual Tony’s come to associate with a steady stream of flying fatalities. “Ready for pickup.”

Tony banks hard, and hits two more rodents before catching Barton up and swinging back towards the train that has started rocking with the force of the rats trying to climb up it.

“Drop me on the roof of that car,” Barton points to one of the middle cars. “I’ll try to clear some space from there.”

“Now, when you say to _drop_ you –” Tony starts, knows the grin is audible in his voice.

“Place him down gently, Iron Man,” Coulson is just as unruffled as ever. “We need him intact.”

“Spoilsport,” Natasha’s voice is accompanied by the crackle of electricity from one of the new stings she’s testing out, and she’s briefly lit by blue sparks.

Tony deposits Barton on top of the train – gently – and uses the kickback from his next repulsor blast at a particularly large rat to spin him back to face the tunnels. An infrared scan shows the mass of rodents in the dark. “Hey, Jolly Green, you getting this?”

“For all the good it does,” Bruce responds. “Can you pinpoint a direction, yet?”

“Everywhere,” Steve tells him. “For all the good _that_ does.”

Bruce hums. “Agent Coulson?”

“Dr. Banner?”

“Does SHIELD know what the radius is on these things?”

Coulson makes a noise that from anyone else might sound like frustration. “Not yet.”

Bruce hums again. “I’ll see what I can pull up on the transit cams.”

Tony snorts, and barrels through half a dozen rats blocking the train on the side closest to the tunnel exit. “Jay, give us the cameras from the subways and whatever you’ve got at street level, starting with SHIELD’s perimeter, and moving out.”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis replies smoothly, and video starts scrolling at the edge of the HUD.

“Got that?” Tony asks, eyeing the feed, half-hoping a pattern will leap out at him.

“Got it,” Bruce says. “Thanks, Jarvis.” And Tony can hear the tapping of fingers on a keyboard as he starts to sift through the footage on his end.

“What I want to know is how did these things get so _big_?” Barton demands plaintively after another few minutes, voice a contrast with the sharp hiss of his bowstring.

“Don’t be such a wuss, Iowa,” Steve sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “They were twice this size where I grew up.”

“Yeah?” Barton’s eye roll is audible. “All the rats were horse-sized in the 30’s?”

“Nah,” Steve’s not even bothering to hide the laugh anymore. “Just in Brooklyn.”

There’s an amused snort over the line that could be anyone, but Tony’s not paying attention, because, “They’re coming from _here_ ,” he says.

This groundbreaking statement is met with nothing but the continued sound of fighting for a long moment, then, “What are you talking about?” Natasha asks.

“It’s like the Pied Piper, but backwards,” Tony tries to explain, keeps tracking the movements of the rats in the video feeds he’s getting. “They’re not being created or blown up or –”

“Blown up?” Steve breaks in. “Like a bomb?”

“Honey, I blew up the rats?” Barton offers.

“Like a picture,” Natasha says firmly, and Tony’s pretty sure she’s rolling her eyes at Barton as hard as he is. “You blow up a picture to make it bigger. Someone blew up these rats to make them bigger. Expanded them.”

“Yes, that,” Tony agrees, and he hopes that Natasha knows that even if he can’t see her, she’s his favorite right now. “But they’re not. Being expanded, or whatever, and sent here. They’re being brought here, and then blown up. Expanded. Made bigger.”

“What do you mean?” Coulson presses, at the same time as Steve’s “How do you know?”

“I mean,” Tony says slowly, “That regular everyday garden variety city rats are being,” he scrambles for a word, “ _summoned_ here by something, and they’re growing into these fanged and furry pieces of terrifying when they get within a certain radius of whatever is doing the summoning. There’s no lab or workshop or evil zoo somewhere making these things and setting them loose. They’re only here. And I know this,” he continues, “because I can see them coming, and they’re not like this anywhere else, but they’re all coming _here_ ,” he makes his point by blasting his millionth rat, “and turning into _this_ ,” he hits another rat in the face.

“Any idea what’s causing it?” Tony can’t tell if the slightly-less-than-bland edge to Coulson’s voice is interest, irritation, or distraction. Avoiding panicked and shrieking civilians who don’t know how to follow instructions from the professionals evacuating them while trying to shoot giant rodents is pretty distracting.

Bruce hums down the line again. “Movement patterns and growth radius suggest two cars down from Hawkeye, towards the back of the train. I can’t tell from here if it’s science or magic.”

“I remember the days when that wasn’t a sentence that would have happened,” Barton sounds a little wistful. Tony can relate. “Those were good times.”

“The last of the civilians are in that car,” Coulson announces, ignoring the chatter. “We should have them out in a couple more minutes.”

“B train is clear, I’m coming your way to cover the 4,” Steve says, then, “Widow?”

“Present.”

The eye roll is clear in Steve’s voice, but all he says is, “When we’ve got everyone out, you and I are going in.”

“You got it, Cap.”

“What are the rest of us, rat food?” Barton demands.

“Long-range ballistics,” Cap tells him, “much classier.”

It’s less than five minutes to get the last of the passengers out of the train, clutching their belongings and moving in tight knots, though only a few of them shriek when the rats get too close. At least one of them is taking video, and several others have their phones out, clearly trying to get pictures. Tony is unimpressed.

“That’s the last of them,” Coulson says from wherever he is. “Cap, Widow, you’re clear.”

“Already in,” Natasha replies, and Tony turns to see her shape in the train windows. He grins.

“Widow,” there’s a very clear edge in Steve’s tone.

“Cap,” she replies sweetly.

Tony grins again, and keeps grinning as he blasts another rat. “What do you see, Widow?” he asks, watches as Steve neatly vaults in through the open car doors to join Natasha.

“Nothing,” is the almost immediate response. “Trash.”

“Newspapers, wrappers, cups,” is Steve’s contribution. “Usual New York.”

Abrupt silence falls, and it’s almost deafening.

“Um,” Barton says into the sudden quiet.

“What’s going on out there?” Steve demands, instantly picking up on the change, and appearing again in the doorway to peer out into the semi-dark tunnel.

“Nothing,” Barton says. “Actual nothing. The rats are gone.”

“Civilians all clear,” Coulson puts in. “Agents have them all above ground. Where are the rats?”

Tony scans the tunnel. “Fleeing back into the walls, or wherever they came from,” he says. “Normal sized, seems like. For New York, anyway. J, Bruce, anything?”

“Nothing else here,” Bruce replies, and Tony can hear the rapid clicking as he skims feeds.

“I see nothing unusual, sir,” Jarvis adds. “Whatever was causing the change appears to have ceased.”

Steve ducks back into the train car. “Widow and I are going to go over this car, see if we can find something. Iron Man, Hawkeye, run another sweep of the tunnel.”

“We’ll have SHIELD teams do more thorough sweeps of the trains and the tunnels,” Coulson puts in. “If the rats are actually gone, your team is clear, Cap. I’ll let you know when we’re done here, and we can debrief at HQ.”

“Ooh, burned,” Barton fake whispers.

“Leave it, Cap,” Natasha says, quick like she’s cutting Steve off before he can speak.

There’s a huff of air over the comm, but Steve doesn’t argue. A moment later, he and Natasha jump lightly out of the train. Barton joins them after another few seconds, and Tony drops to the ground next to him. For a long moment, they all just look at each other in the dim lighting.

“Race you back to the quinjet?” Barton offers.

+

By the time SHIELD has finished clearing the scene, and Coulson has called them back in for a useless – though thankfully short – debrief and then released them again, it’s late afternoon. Steve is feeling pretty drained – not physically so much, but they’d had to deal with clamoring reporters and _concerned citizens_ (who were mostly just hoping to get photographs and autographs instead of clearing out, like they were supposed to) when they got above ground after they left the tunnels, and then again when they’d arrived at HQ for the debrief. All he really wants to do is go back to his apartment and curl up with a book or a sketchpad for the rest of the evening. He has to remind himself he doesn’t have an apartment, anymore. And he can’t even go shut himself up in his room, because he and Tony have to go out and pretend they’re in love so everyone can gawk at them. It all makes him want to hit something.

Steve is the last to leave the conference room, wanting a few minutes of breathing room before he has to face the horde of reporters outside. He’s just pulled himself together when Tony saunters back into the room. He’s looking a little tense around the eyes, has been for the past three days, but still manages to look the perfect blend of put together and artfully disheveled Steve has always envied, just a little. Howard and Bucky had both been the same. It’s not the first time Tony has reminded him of both his father and Bucky, but the comparison still makes Steve’s chest ache.

“Tired, Cap?” Tony slouches against the wall by the door, somehow managing to make it look like the wall’s sole purpose for existing is to support his weight, and it should be proud to do so.

“I’m fine,” Steve barely manages not to snap.

Tony raises his hands like he’s surrendering. “Of course you are,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like he believes it, but Steve is ridiculously grateful that he doesn’t push, for once. “I just thought you might want to get this dinner date over with?” it sounds more like a question to Steve than he thinks it was probably intended to.

“A little early for dinner, isn’t it?”

Tony shrugs. “It’s dinner if we say it’s dinner.”

“And it’s just that easy for you?” Steve isn’t sure why he doesn’t just agree, it’s just dinner, and he would definitely like to get it over with, but there’s something under his skin right now, and Tony’s insouciant attitude rankles even more than usual.

Tony opens his mouth, shuts it, cocks his head a little like he’s sizing Steve up, and Steve is about to snap at him, when Tony sighs. “Look,” he says, tone much softer than Steve had been half-braced for. “You might not be tired, but I am.” Steve blinks at that, isn’t sure he’s ever heard Tony offer up any hint of weakness before, and realizes, with a start, that this is Tony trying. “If you don’t want to go now, that’s fine,” Tony continues. “But I thought it might be easier on us both if I just called Happy and had him take us somewhere – we can sneak out the back and avoid the press. They’re going to be taking pictures of us later, anyway, no point in dealing with them again now. SHIELD can handle their questions about the rats.”

Steve bites back his instinctual response about shirking, about Tony skipping out and leaving everyone else to clean up the mess. He realizes, if he thinks back at all, that for all his studied carelessness, Tony _doesn’t_ skip out, not on this. Steve’s fairly certain Tony makes a habit of showing up late to meetings, if he shows up at all, but he’s just as certain that he’s never left anyone on the team to face the press alone, has taken over that duty himself more times than Steve can count in the past year, has done it so smoothly that Steve’s not sure anyone has even noticed how Tony has kept the limelight on himself so that Clint, and Natasha, and Banner, and even Steve himself, haven’t had to deal with it.

“That would be good,” Steve admits, after what might be too long a pause, but Tony doesn’t call him on that, either, and Steve watches as his shoulders drop half an inch, like he’d been tensed for another response entirely.

Together, they head out of the conference room, and Steve lets Tony lead them past the main bank of elevators to a hall at the back of the building, and through a door marked “Maintenance.”

“Hope you don’t mind the stairs,” Tony says, starting down them at a trot.

“I’m not the one living in the building with the sentient elevators,” Steve points out, following, and then bites the inside of his cheek when he remembers that’s not true anymore.

Tony tips a grin back over his shoulder like he was having the same thought.

“Don’t,” Steve warns, still feeling on edge, and, because Tony is apparently in an obliging mood, he just grins a little wider and doesn’t say anything else until they hit ground level.

“Happy’s bringing the car around,” he says when they reach the short hallway at the bottom, leans against the wall by the emergency exit door, tapping something out on his phone. “Pepper’s texting us a handful of restaurants nearby to choose from – what are you in the mood for? Sushi? Steak? Shish kabobs?”

“Let’s walk,” Steve says impulsively, feeling a little foolish, but also a little like he might scream if he has to go sit inside somewhere and be surrounded by people. “I know we have to – go on a date,” the words feel decidedly odd in his mouth, but that’s his life now, he supposes, so he’ll just have to get used to them, “but can we just.” He doesn’t want to say _put it off a few minutes longer_ , even though that’s what he’s thinking. “The Tower’s not that far. We can head in that direction. Let’s just walk?”

Tony quirks an eyebrow, but doesn’t protest, just taps something else rapid-fire into his phone and tucks it into a pocket. “After you,” he says, pushes the door open before Steve can stop him, and doesn’t even look surprised when the alarm doesn’t go off. “I disabled it,” he says, like it’s nothing. “It’ll kick back in in a couple minutes.”

“Right,” Steve tries not to look either too impressed or too disapproving, and steps past Tony into what turns out to be an alley.

There’s a sleek black car sitting a few feet away, but Tony just waves at it as they pick their way out onto the main street.

Twice Steve opens his mouth to ask why Tony isn’t putting up more of a fuss about this, and stops himself both times. He wonders if maybe he’s not the only one feeling a little trapped, but it’s so odd to think of Tony, of all people, feeling trapped by having a lot of people around, given his life, that Steve has to shut that train of thought down. Something to think about another time, when he isn’t already feeling like his head might explode.

They’re a couple blocks away from the Tower when Steve steers them off the street and into Bryant Park. It’s only a little patch of green compared to Central Park, but it’s not bad for Manhattan. Steve’s sat around watching games of chess and backgammon more than once before, figures he’ll probably be spending more time here now that he lives so close. He hopes he will, anyway, there’s something almost peaceful about it, a muffling of sound in spite of the traffic all around. He can feel some of the stress easing out of his neck and shoulders, steals periodic sidelong glances at Tony to see if he minds the detour, but Tony seems content to just walk and not question it.

It’s nice just walking with Tony, oddly enough. They don’t talk, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable, more like a silence between friends than between two people forced to be out together. Steve had thought, for a while, that maybe this was where they were headed, a comfortable friendship, rather than a sometimes-strained working partnership. Over the last couple days, he hasn’t been sure if their current situation would destroy any progress they’d made, or help it move along faster. He’s hoping for the latter, but he hasn’t been holding his breath. Until now, he wasn’t even sure Tony knew how to be quiet – he’d swear the other man _thinks_ loudly. But this, this walking along, lost in their own thoughts, nowhere specific they have to be – even if it’s because they’re stalling – no one they have to save, it’s just. Nice.

They’re on their third loop when Tony starts to slow. “We’ve got a tail,” he says quietly, leaning in a bit, shifting so that they’re angled more towards each other.

“What?” Steve stops when Tony does, eyes quickly scanning the scattered people around them, the trees, the monument.

“Paparazzi,” Tony says, low, then, before Steve can turn, “No, don’t look,” and “Don’t punch me,” he adds, leans right up into Steve’s space, and kisses him on the mouth.

Steve manages not to jerk back in surprise, but it’s a near thing. His hand comes up, palm catching on Tony’s shoulder, and it might be to hold him still or push him back, Steve doesn’t even know himself, but Tony’s already pulling away, settling back down onto his feet, slightly smug smile making his lips curl. Steve, still a little thrown, realizes Tony had gone up on his toes to reach him, and finds himself smiling back.

“I don’t –” Steve starts, tries to pull his thoughts back together. Tony’s got one hand hooked into the open front of Steve’s jacket, the backs of his knuckles just grazing the front of Steve’s shirt underneath, and Steve is suddenly very aware of that almost-there contact.

“Give them a show, right?” Tony’s smile turns into a smirk.

Somehow the smirk helps Steve find his balance again. “Right,” he agrees, rests a hand high on Tony’s shoulder, fingers curling against his collar, ignores the sudden thought that if Tony were in street clothes, he’d be touching skin. “What now?”

The smirk turns a little sly. “Now,” Tony says, steps right up into Steve’s space, tips up onto his toes again, “now, we go get takeout to bring home from the nicest place on Pepper’s list, and let them think whatever they want to think about that.” They’re so close they’re almost kissing, and it’s more distracting than it should be.

“Right,” Steve says again, can almost feel Tony’s lips against his as they move, can taste the coffee Tony was drinking throughout their debrief on his breath. He can feel where Tony is using his grip on Steve’s jacket for balance, and tightens his fingers a little on Tony’s shoulder to hold him, but a moment later Tony drops back onto his heels, and Steve’s fingers slide up the back of his neck just a little, brushing into the short hairs along his nape. Steve can feel the nearly imperceptible shiver that runs along Tony’s spine, and then Tony is stepping away from him again.

“Takeout,” Tony says again, releases his handful of Steve’s jacket and carefully smooths it back against Steve’s chest.

Steve gives himself a bit of a mental shake, and nods. “Think we can get away with it?” he asks. It sounds so tempting to not have to go sit in a restaurant somewhere and pretend they want to be playing footsie under the table, but he knows their timeline, and he doesn’t think he has the energy right now to sit through being chewed out for messing anything up.

“Darling,” Tony says, grin somewhere between natural and paparazzi-ready, “this was better than three dinner dates. We’ve earned ourselves a night in.”

Steve shakes his head, but he can feel his mouth twitching at the corners. “‘Darling’ is it?”

Tony blinks, and then his grin settles into something almost fully natural. “Would you prefer ‘Sweetcheeks’?” he asks, tone innocent.

“Anything but that,” Steve says, dry as he can, and gestures for Tony to lead the way out of the park.

+

Sudden silence as Sabotage cuts out makes Tony jerk up from where he’s been bent over one of his jetboots, fixing some of the finer circuitry in the repulsor unit. Pepper’s heels click across the floor as the door slides shut behind her.

“You need to stop ignoring calls,” she tells him by way of greeting.

Tony hums noncommittally and turns back to his repairs. Pepper’s told him this at least once a week for the last ten years, he can’t imagine she actually expects him to change now.

“The news of your engagement has leaked,” Pepper continues, comes to stand close enough that Tony is forced to turn to look at her again. “The photos of you and Captain Rogers making out in the park went viral –”

“We were not _making out_ ,” Tony feels compelled to point out. “I kissed him _once_.”

“Well, it looks like a lot more than that,” Pepper says. “Jarvis? Would you?”

“Of course, Ms. Potts.” Jarvis helpfully brings up the pictures from the previous afternoon.

Tony doesn’t need to look. He’s seen all of them, had spent half the night looking at pictures and reading comments before he managed to fall asleep, and he’s well aware of the image he and Steve presented, had known when he’d pressed back into Steve’s space what it would look like to anyone watching, taking pictures.

“Thank you,” Pepper smiles at the nearest camera, and turns back to Tony. “Regardless of whether or not you were, in fact, making out, it looks like you were, and the pictures were everywhere by dinnertime. That wasn’t exactly what we were going for, but it was certainly effective. PR was contacted by at least half a dozen major news outlets before eight this morning and has been “no comment”-ing all day. However, about an hour ago, we had our leak. A line about how pleased all your friends are that you and Captain Rogers have finally decided to get married, and how happy the two of you are together.” Pepper pauses here to give Tony a significant sort of look.

“Happy as clams,” Tony agrees blithely, refusing to take the bait. He knows what she’s thinking, but it’s too late to do anything but carry on.

Pepper opens her mouth as if to refute it, sighs, and shakes her head. “I’ve given the weekend PR team my statement to release this evening,” she continues after a moment. “We decided it best to go with an expression of deep disappointment that your relationship was being dragged about like this, and that, while it is true you are engaged, we would like to ask that your privacy – and that of Captain Rogers – be respected going forward.”

Tony can’t help but scoff a little at that, and Pepper rolls her eyes at him.

“Yes, yes,” she says. “We all know the press has never respected anyone’s privacy, especially yours, and is unlikely to start now.

“And for once we don’t want them to,” Tony points out.

“And for once we don’t want them to,” Pepper agrees. “So it will all work out well in the end.”

“Will it?” Tony asks, and it’s a little more pathetic than he’d meant for it to be.

Pepper’s face slides into worry. “Tony,” she starts, but Tony cuts her off.

“Don’t,” he shakes his head, doesn’t want to do this again. “It’s fine. It will _be_ fine. We may even end up getting along after all of this. That’s a good thing, right?”

“Tony.”

“Pepper.”

Pepper sighs. “If you can’t do this – no,” she holds up a hand before Tony can even open his mouth, “don’t interrupt. And don’t just brush this off. If you _can’t_ do this, you need to tell me. You can lie to everyone else if you want to, but I know you, and I know what this must be costing you. No one will judge you if you –”

Tony can’t help an incredulous snort, and Pepper’s nostrils flare like she’s ready to yell, but she takes a deep breath and when she speaks, it’s clearly not him she’s angry with.

“If _anyone_ ,” she says, voice quiet but with an edge he’s heard before so rarely he can count each time on one hand, and have fingers left over, “anyone at all, gives you any grief about this, I will personally ensure they regret it until the day they die.”

Tony just stares.

Pepper holds his gaze for a long moment, then nods decisively. “Tell me if it’s a problem, and I will deal with it.”

Tony nods automatically for a moment, then looks away, takes a deep breath of his own, and looks back, meets her eyes. “I appreciate it,” he tells her. “I do. But I can do this. It’s a teenage celebrity crush that’s gotten a little out of hand, what with a couple decades of compound interest and then actually meeting the man. And it may be – it may have _become_ more than a crush, but I don’t. I don’t really know him, do I? I think we’ve proven that quite often enough with the way we butt heads. I built him up in my head to be this… I don’t know. My father always.” Tony stops. Swallows. Changes tack. “Every time I think I know what he’s going to do, or how he’s going to react, he does something different. He’s human as they come, and sometimes that’s so disappointing I just want to break something, because he was the one thing I had –” Tony stops again. Takes another deep breath. “Sometimes it’s disappointing, but sometimes it just makes him real in a way I never could have imagined, and I don’t know what to do with that. I can’t figure him out. Maybe this will give me the chance to, and he’ll lose some of his sheen. Or maybe it’ll just desensitize me to his existence.”

“Or maybe it will give him the chance to fall for you?” Pepper offers.

Tony gives her a look he hopes conveys how absurd that is. When she just continues to watch him, he shakes his head. “I’m not fifteen, Pep. I don’t need impossible daydreams to get me through.”

“You’re never too old for daydreams,” she tells him tartly, “and you’ve been known to believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast – and make them possible by lunch.”

“This is not one of those situations,” Tony points out. “I can’t reprogram Captain America.”

“Nor should you,” Pepper agrees, “But that doesn’t mean you can’t let him see what you’re really like when you’re not trying to pull his pigtails, and let him figure the rest out on his own.”

“I’m trying to be less of a dick,” Tony tries not to snap. “But it’s not like there’s much to work with.”

Pepper’s expression gets a little soft, and a little sad. “That’s not true,” she says. “There’s so much to you, Tony, and so much to love.”

Tony’s not quite sure what his face is doing, but Pepper’s expression abruptly shifts more towards sad.

“ _I_ love you,” Pepper’s voice is as serious as Tony has ever heard it, hears _You’re all I have, too, you know_ , and knows she means it. “Just because we weren’t right together doesn’t mean that I don’t still love you, or that you won’t find something that works with someone else.”

And Tony. He doesn’t know how to answer that.

Pepper sighs. “I know it’s not romantic now, and the marriage is only going to be real in the legal sense, but for all intents and purposes you two will be dating for the foreseeable future. At the very least, you will have to learn to get along when you’re not actively fighting a common enemy. Who knows where else things might go?”

“I don’t think –” Tony starts, but Pepper holds up a hand, forestalling him.

“That was rhetorical. Please don’t try to answer. Just keep it in mind.” She holds out the tablet she’d had tucked under her arm. “No more feelings,” she says, tone brisk now. “I know they give you hives. I need three signatures from you, and we need to go over yesterday’s board meeting, since you had to run off and save the city instead of attending.”

“You probably got more done without me there,” Tony points out, glad for the change in topic, even if talking about board meetings is almost as bad as actually attending them.

“Probably,” Pepper agrees easily. “You still should have been there.” She waves the tablet at him. “Instead, we’ll do this, and then I’ll let you be a genius until it’s time to get ready for your date. Which _will_ be an actual date.” She gives him a warning look.

“We were both exhausted from the fight, I was just trying to be a good future husband.”

“And if I ask Captain Rogers?”

“He’ll probably say I was slacking, I don’t know, but it worked.” Tony feels that’s what Pepper should be taking away from this, and Steve had been thrilled not to have to sit through another meal with Tony – had vanished into his room as soon as they had gotten home and hadn’t come out again for the rest of the evening – so he shouldn’t have any complaints, either.

Pepper eyes him, but doesn’t refute it, just pulls up the first form on her tablet, and passes it over. “Come on,” she says, “the sooner we get done with this, the sooner you can go back to tinkering.”

+

The restaurant is expecting Steve when he shows up. They don’t even ask his name, just whisk him off to a table that’s tucked into a corner to give the illusion of privacy, in spite of being fully visible to the big room.

Steve settles in, and tries not to fidget while he waits. He’s earlier than he’d meant to be. He’d had a meeting at SHIELD regarding a mission he and Clint had been supposed to be involved in that was being passed off to another team – “in view of other priorities, Captain, you understand” – and the handoff had gone more quickly than expected. Clint had headed back to the Tower, but Steve hadn’t seen the point, had just changed at SHIELD, as he’d originally planned, and come straight to the restaurant. But now he’s wishing he’d gone, too, if only to kill a little more time.

Even though he knows it would be rude, he’s a little tempted to pull out the little notebook he keeps and sketch, just for something to do with his hands. He’s not nervous, exactly, just uncomfortable, and as much as Tony’s constant movement seems to be a regular source of irritation for whomever is sitting next to him in meetings, Steve understands having trouble just sitting still. Especially when he’s uncomfortable.

Not that he’s uncomfortable. Just. Waiting. Aware of the sidelong looks he’s getting, though he can’t quite parse why. At least when Tony’s around, he knows people are looking because it’s ‘Tony Stark and an Avenger’– not because he’s underdressed. Though maybe people will be watching them for other reasons now, and that’s the kicker. Steve hasn’t seen Tony since they got back to the Tower the night before, they’d grabbed takeout on the way, but hadn’t eaten together. Steve had gone to his room and Tony had gone, well, wherever it was Tony went to. His workshop, maybe. Steve hadn’t asked, had just been a little relieved to be able to hole up in his own space and draw, get out of his head for a bit.

What had started out as the view from his window had turned into scenes from the fight in the tunnels had turned into the team in the conference room during the debriefing had turned into Tony, lips curled in a sly grin, leaning in, sunglasses off and so close Steve could count his eyelashes. Steve had stared at that last sketch for a long time, not quite sure what to make of it. And he’s still not sure. He’d seen the photos, and even though he knows Tony had only kissed him the once – and barely even then – it had looked so much like something else that Steve can almost remember being kissed again, more than just a brief press of warm lips and the there-and-gone rasp of Tony’s goatee. Which is ridiculous. It didn’t happen. It was just the angle of the pictures. Tony obviously knew what he was doing, knew where the cameras were, and what it would look like. And now it keeps playing in Steve’s head like battle plans and older memories he doesn’t want to think about.

There’s a ripple of movement, heads turning, and Steve looks up to see Tony making his way across the room towards him, sauntering between tables like they’re empty, not full of people watching him, or like the blatant attention is nothing more than his due. Yesterday morning Steve would have said he knew which it was, but now he’s not so sure. He’s starting to get the feeling he knows even less about Tony than he’d thought he did.

Automatically, Steve gets to his feet as Tony reaches him, then realizes he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t exactly shake Tony’s hand in greeting, not with all of these witnesses, not now, and he’d just seen the man yesterday, anyhow. And this is a date, he knows it is, but he’s pretty sure he can’t just pull Tony’s chair out for him, either.

Tony does not seem to have the same trouble figuring out what to do. He steps right up into Steve’s space and brushes a kiss to his cheek before pulling out his own chair and sinking into it, smile firmly in place.

Steve can feel the spot he kissed – warm, hot, almost, but not unpleasantly so – and he has to actively stop himself from putting his hand to his face to touch it. He sits back down a little more heavily than he’d intended, and winces at both the jolt up his spine and the creak the chair gives in protest.

“Good day, dear?” Tony asks, and it’s trite and practiced, but there’s something in his smile, which has twitched a little like he noticed Steve’s stumbling and is trying valiantly not to laugh, that feels genuine.

“Can’t complain,” Steve allows, and tries on a bit of a smile of his own.

Tony’s mouth twitches again. “I think you mean you _won’t_ complain,” he says, and he’s definitely trying not to laugh, now.

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Maybe. But what would be the point?”

“Good for the soul,” Tony replies promptly.

“Complaining?”

“Bleeds off the poison,” Tony explains, and Steve can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. “Gets it off your chest, so you’re not just holding it all in and stewing.”

“Or you could just let things go,” Steve points out, and he’s half-joking, wondering where Tony will take this next, but Tony stiffens, almost imperceptibly, and the smile seems a little more frozen on his face.

“Because you’re so good at just letting things go,” Tony says, something much sharper in his words now, and it hits Steve in a way he hadn’t been expecting, hard, right in the chest.

Reeling a little from the unexpected one-eighty in a conversation they’ve barely even started, Steve snaps out, “At least I’m learning,” before he’s even thought it, and watches as Tony’s face completely shuts down. He opens his mouth to say – something, anything – he doesn’t know, but Tony cuts him off.

“You’re right,” he says, and Steve’s not entirely sure he’s not speaking to himself. “I don’t learn. I shouldn’t push. Have you ordered anything to drink?”

Steve blinks at the abrupt subject change, then up at the waiter who practically materializes out of thin air when Tony beckons. He takes the menu he’s offered while Tony rattles off something that might be wine, says “I’ll have the same,” when the man turns to him, and then looks back at Tony, who has opened his own menu rather pointedly in front of his face. At least, it seems pointed.

They don’t speak again until the waiter has returned with what was indeed wine and left with their orders.

“Barton said you had a meeting at SHIELD?” Tony has taken a piece of bread from the basket in the middle of the table and is methodically shredding it onto the little plate he has in front of him.

“He –” Steve stops, tells himself firmly this is an olive branch, not an attack. “Yes,” he says, instead. “We had a mission, but, given the situation, they’re sending another team.”

“Oh?” Tony’s eyes are fixed firmly on his own fingers as they move.

Steve nods anyway. “We were meant to leave in less than a week. They didn’t seem to think that would be possible.”

Tony glances up with a wry smile, then looks back down, starts moving the bits of bread around on his plate. “So kind of them not to want to interrupt our honeymoon.”

Steve snorts. “It was supposed to just be the two of us with Sitwell running comms. They’ve got a team of five on it, now.”

Tony’s looking at him again, frowning slightly, fingers gone still. “Sitwell? Not Coulson?”

“Fury still won’t clear him for overseas ops,” Steve shakes his head as Tony’s frown deepens. “I don’t think he’s in as great shape as he’s pretending.”

“Man was stabbed and declared dead,” Tony points out, but he’s still frowning.

“He got better,” Steve feels compelled to remind him.

Tony eyeballs him, like he’s not sure if he’s making a joke. “I’ll ask Pepper what she thinks. They keep in touch.” Tony makes a face that Steve can’t quite parse. “If she doesn’t know anything, I’ll ask Natasha. She’s still angry with Fury over the whole thing.”

“And you’re not?” Steve tries to keep his voice level and easy.

Tony’s smile is sharp. “Oh, I am. Can’t really argue with the results, I’ll give Saint Nick that, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want him to feel it. It’ll just be more fun to watch Natasha do it. The woman is an artist.”

Steve can’t dispute that. Natasha verbally tearing into Fury when he’d finally told them Coulson was alive and more-or-less well had been a thing of beauty. “Let me know what Ms. Potts says?” he asks. “Or Natasha?”

“Of course,” Tony waves a hand like it’s a foregone conclusion that he would share whatever information he digs up.

Steve takes a slow breath and tells himself this is not something he needs to start another fight over. Tony is not actually withholding information, and it’s not even like that’s something he does, not intentionally, he just. Forgets. Or, rather, he gets distracted, or doesn’t think it’s important. It’s not like this is mission-related, anyway, this is entirely personal. And Steve gets the impression it’s more personal for Tony than it is for him.

“You good, Cap?” Tony asks, and Steve realizes Tony had been talking and he’d missed it.

“Fine. Sorry. I just. Was thinking.” Steve picks up a piece of bread and starts spreading butter on it, just to have something to do with his hands.

There’s silence from across the table.

Steve looks up, and Tony’s watching him, face unreadable.

“Was there –” Steve starts to ask, stops. “I know this isn’t going to be easy,” he says at last, makes sure he’s meeting Tony’s eyes. “We don’t always see things the same way.”

Tony huffs out a breath that might be a laugh, and Steve feels his lips quirk a little in response. “Understatement of the year,” Tony points out, and Steve chuckles, can’t quite help it.

“True,” he admits. “It’s why we’re in this situation to begin with. But maybe it doesn’t have to be terrible? We work well together in the field, most of the time. You know we do.”

“We do,” Tony agrees slowly, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Maybe this will help make us better,” Steve suggests. “We’re going to have to spend a lot of time together, maybe knowing each other better this way will make things easier in combat situations.”

Tony’s mouth twitches at the word _combat_ , but he doesn’t dispute it. “My goal in life,” he says, and Steve’s pretty sure it’s sarcastic, but he also thinks there’s an undercurrent of seriousness there. And, when he thinks about it, he knows Tony has been trying. Probably more than he has.

“Right,” Steve nods, not really in response to Tony’s words, but decisively, anyway. “So.” He isn’t really sure where to go from here. Maybe best to ease into casual conversation. “I saw the photos. From last night. They were. Something else.”

Tony cocks his head a bit, and now he’s just watching Steve again, like he’s waiting for something.

Steve tries not to flush. “Did Ms. Potts say how the leak went? Or the. The press release? That was tonight?”

“Yes,” Tony nods, and he’s still watching Steve like he’s not quite sure what to do in this situation – which must be a first, Steve thinks, maybe a little uncharitably – but is game to give it a go. “She gave the PR team a statement, it should be going out around now.”

Not the greatest dinner conversation, but, Steve figures, at least they’re less likely to start an actual fight over their appetizers.

+

It’s well past midnight when Tony shuffles his way into the kitchen in search of caffeine. The reactor-based water filtration system he’s been working on still isn’t functioning the way he wants it to, but his notes were starting to blur. He needs either coffee or sleep, and sleep is almost never the answer.

This might be one of those times when he needs to at least try to sleep, though, if his inability to muster any surprise at the giant blond demi-god sitting at his breakfast bar is any indication.

“There’s an apartment for you downstairs,” Tony tells him, figuring if Thor wanted pleasantries he could have waited until daylight hours.

Thor grins broadly. “I had heard as much,” he replies, voice somehow managing to be a quiet boom, perhaps out of respect for the late hour. “I thank you for it.”

Tony nods, and pulls a mug down while the coffee machine gurgles to life.

“I wished also to inquire if my services would be required for the upcoming celebration. My dear Jane has explained your marriage ceremony to me, and I understand it is common practice for your comrades to stand up with you as you pledge yourselves to one another.”

Tony blinks. “I. Yes?” He is not awake enough for this. He gives himself a little mental shake. “I mean, no. I mean.” Tony throws a glare at the slow drip of coffee. It refuses to speed up. He turns back to Thor, who is still beaming happily at him, though starting to look a little confused. “My – Rhodey – my friend – best friend – he’s coming in tomorrow night. Tonight, more accurately. He’ll be my best man.” Tony frowns, a little. “I hope, anyway. I haven’t asked him properly, but he claimed it decades ago, so he gets right of first refusal.”

“Of course,” Thor looks a little disappointed, and Tony just cannot deal with that right now.

“Ask Cap?” he suggests. “I don’t know that he’s made all that many friends in the here and now. Guy doesn’t get out much, unless he’s hitting things. He might like it if you, you know, stood up with him.” _Gotta be tough when all your friends are dead,_ he thinks, but doesn’t add. It’s a new thing he’s trying, not saying the things that pop into his head every time he so much as thinks about Steve. It’s harder than it looks, but he’s pretty sure that, for all Steve can be an absolute dick with very little provocation, if Tony _doesn’t_ provoke him, he’s too polite to bite first.

Thor’s smile comes back full force. “I shall make my offer to him, then,” he says. He rises and crosses the room to clap a hand onto Tony’s shoulder. Tony only staggers a little under the weight of it. “It is good of you to suggest it. Our captain holds himself apart, but that does not mean it is because he wishes it to be so. Your insight is to be commended.”

Tony tries to shift away without success. “Thanks?”

“You are welcome.” Thor claps him on the shoulder again, and Tony’s knees almost buckle this time. “I had thought to question you further on your aim for this alliance, as you had not spoken of your affection previously. But I see now that I need not ask your intent, my friend. Your regard for the good captain is plain, and it brings to mind many of your actions since we formed our band of warriors. For all you speak, you say very little of what you truly feel, letting your deeds show the depth of your attachment. This is most commendable.”

Tony realizes he’s staring, mouth slightly open in shock. Pepper and Jarvis knowing about his crush, fine. He’s almost positive Rhodey knows he never grew out of it, too. But Thor? Thor’s only been around sporadically over the last year. If he knows, who else knows? Does _Steve_ know? No, he’s not that good of an actor, to be able to hide something like that. But the others? He’s going to have to figure that out. Make sure no one thinks it’s serious, and, more importantly, make sure no one says anything about it to enlighten Steve. Tony’s pretty sure he couldn’t handle that.

“I wish you much felicity of your union,” Thor finishes, and Tony realizes he’d missed some unknown portion of Thor’s speech.

“Right,” Tony nods a bit. “Well. Thanks for that.” He’s not entirely sure what the appropriate response is at this juncture. “Look, you know this isn’t a real marriage, right?” he asks, because that’s probably the important thing, here, and maybe that will nip talk of the depth of his attachment in the bud. “Fury and Coulson set it up with Pepper to fix the Avengers’ image.”

“Because the masses cannot mind their own business and your previous paramour was a bag of scum,” Thor sounds like he’s reciting. “My love and her companion, the fair Darcy, explained it.”

“Right,” Tony says again. “Okay. Well.” He’s out. He glances at the coffee pot, which is finally full. “I should,” he gestures in the direction of the coffee.

“Indeed!” Thor releases him. “I will retire to my own apartments.”

Tony sidles along the counter. “Sounds like a plan. Have a good night. Let Jarvis know if you need anything.”

“I thank you again, my friend,” Thor beams a little brighter, and then wanders out towards the elevator.

For a long moment, Tony stares after him, then pours himself a cup of coffee and stares at that. He’s not entirely sure he knows what just happened.

“Your tests have come back complete, sir,” Jarvis says, interrupting Tony’s staring contest with the contents of his mug. “There is no significant change in the purity of the output.”

Tony swears, and rubs a hand over his face. “Fuck it,” he says, and puts the coffee back on the counter. “Lock it all down, J. I’m going to bed.”

“Very good, sir,” Jarvis sounds surprised, but vaguely pleased.

“Fuck it,” Tony says again, and makes a beeline for his bedroom.

+

For the fourth time in as many days, Steve jerks awake convinced something’s wrong. He settles almost immediately, but that doesn’t do much to make the experience less unpleasant. He gives himself a long minute to viciously and indiscriminately hate everything, then takes a deep breath and rolls out of bed, padding barefoot over to the windows.

The view and the early morning sunshine that streams in when he pulls back one of the curtains go a long way towards making him feel better. It’s hard to hate the world when it looks so incredible.

After several minutes of basking, Steve feels significantly less destructive. He dresses quickly and heads out for a run, following the already familiar route up to Central Park. The steady rhythm of the run helps as much as the sunshine and the view of the city, and by the time he returns to the penthouse, armed with breakfast, he feels much better, and ready to deal with whatever the day plans on throwing at him.

The kitchen is empty when he gets there, but he’s left bagels on the counter the last two mornings, and they’ve vanished by lunchtime, so he figures someone has to be eating them. Probably several someones.

He’s just finishing the last of his own bagel when he hears the elevator, and a few moments later, Ms. Potts clicks into view, looking as scarily put together as ever, in spite of the still-early hour.

“Wonderful, you’re here,” she says as soon as she spots him.

Automatically, Steve glances behind him to see if Tony’s there. He’s not, of course, but it would have somehow been less confusing for Tony to have been able to sneak up on him than for Ms. Potts to be there for Steve. “Um,” he manages, then, just as eloquently. “Me?”

A corner of Ms. Potts’s mouth ticks up. “Yes, Captain. I have these for you and Tony to sign.” She passes him a folder of papers. “He should be here in a minute, and Natasha said she would find either Agent Barton or Dr. Banner to be a witness.”

“A witness for what?” Steve asks, opening the folder. “Is this for the marriage license?”

“No, we’re doing that next – I hope you don’t have anything planned for this morning. Phil’s handling it, so it shouldn’t take long, but you do have to go together, in person, and we’d like to keep it as low-key as possible, since we’d rather people didn’t know you were getting married this weekend until after it’s happened.”

“So what’s this?” Steve asks. The papers don’t make much sense.

“It’s a pre-nup.” At Steve’s blank look, Ms. Potts continues. “A pre-nuptial agreement? It’s to protect the private assets of individuals acquired prior to a marriage. Not particularly romantic, and I’m not generally a fan of them for a variety of reasons, but this isn’t a real marriage, and – no offense meant – we can’t risk the company. It’s really nothing personal, but this isn’t intended to last long-term, and there are too many people dependent on Stark Industries to chance a lawsuit tearing it apart.”

“I would never –” Steve starts, but Ms. Potts cuts him off.

“You might not, but can you promise SHIELD won’t on your behalf?”

Steve stares at her. “Can they do that?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past them,” Ms. Potts tells him frankly. “Phil’s been better about it than I’d expected, but he’s been a bit more of a family man than a company man since the invasion. And there’s only so much he would be able to do to head them off, in any case.”

“Who are we heading off?” Clint wanders in and makes a beeline for the bag of bagels. He looks a bit like he just rolled out of bed, sweatpants and t-shirt rumpled, hair sticking up. Natasha, right behind him, is, by contrast, in a neat pair of slacks and a carefully buttoned blouse, like she just stepped out of an office meeting.

“SHIELD, I think,” Steve offers. He looks back down at the papers in front of him.

“We finalized the pre-nup with the lawyers this morning,” Ms. Potts explains. “They were going over it until late last night, but it should be all set now. We just need to get it signed and notarized. Thank you for coming up to be a witness.”

“Is that why I’m here?” Clint takes a bite of a bagel he’s already slathered liberally with cream cheese.

Ms. Potts frowns. “I thought –” she turns to Natasha, who rolls her eyes.

“Yes, that’s why you’re here,” Natasha tells Clint, elbows him sharply in the ribs to get him to move. He barely winces, but he sidles along the counter to let her get at the food.

Clint shrugs. “You just said free food and coffee.”

Natasha shakes her head, slicing into a bagel with slightly unnerving efficiency. “It seemed like the quickest way to get you up, and I wasn’t going to barge into Dr. Banner’s apartment and wake him up when I knew I could get you here with a minimum of fuss.”

Clint shoots her a look of betrayal, the effect only slightly ruined by the new mouthful he’s working on. Natasha ignores him.

The sound of a door slamming down the hall coincides with the loud gurgle of the coffee machine turning itself on. Clint jerks away from it, curling almost protectively around the remainder of his breakfast.

“Is that thing on a timer?” he asks the room at large.

“No, Agent, that was me,” Jarvis’s voice announces, at the same time Ms. Potts says, “No, Jarvis does that.”

That’s only slightly disconcerting, Steve thinks, wonders what else Jarvis controls. He’s about to ask when Tony appears from the direction of the bedrooms. He looks a little surprised to see all of them in his kitchen, but he doesn’t say anything, just heads for the coffee machine, grabbing a mug on his way.

Steve shuffles through the papers again, and he understands what the aim is, now, but the wording hasn’t gotten any less ridiculous. He wishes, for half a second, that he could ask Tony what he thinks of all of this without so many other people around. He feels like he gets more straightforward answers when they’re one-on-one.

“You handled the lawyers?” Tony asks.

Steve glances up, but Tony is focused on pouring coffee from the full pot into his mug.

“Of course,” Ms. Potts answers. She’s scrolling through something on her phone. “They weren’t particularly pleased about working through a Friday night, but we pay them more than enough for them to deal with it. They weren’t bothering you about any of this, were they?”

Tony leans back against the counter and shrugs. “Jarvis screened them. I figured you had it under control, and I didn’t want to rock the boat.”

“Good. Jarvis, if you could send me the names of whoever it was trying to contact Tony, I’d appreciate it. We’ll have words.” Her smile reminds Steve a little bit of Peggy when she was preparing to make someone feel like an idiot. It’s oddly comforting.

“Very good, Ms. Potts,” Jarvis’s tone is approving. “I’ve forwarded the list to your email.”

Ms. Potts does something with her phone. “I got it. Thank you.” She looks up at Clint and Natasha, who are still eating by the counter. “Why don’t you two sit, and we can get started?” She pulls up a seat for herself next to Steve while Clint and Natasha array themselves opposite. “Tony?”

Tony starts, like he’d stopped paying attention, then nods, topping up his mug and moving to sit on Ms. Potts’s other side. “Has anything changed in the last hour?” he asks, taking the pen she offers him.

“No,” she hands another pen to Steve. “The places you need to sign are all marked,” she tells him. “Do you need us to go over anything?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I get it.” He’s still a little offended that they think it’s necessary, and a little concerned about SHIELD’s possible involvement, but he can’t really do anything about the former, and the latter is something he’ll have to look into later.

“What do I do?” Clint asks. He’s already halfway through what Steve thinks is his second bagel.

“You and I will sign at the end,” Ms. Potts tells him. “And Natasha will notarize it. Then I’ll get it back to the legal team to file.”

Clint makes a muffled noise of what sounds like agreement through a new mouthful.

Steve goes through the forms quickly, signing where instructed, then passes the lot over to Tony to do the same.

The whole process doesn’t take very long, and then Clint’s wandering out with a third bagel in hand.

“Let me know if you need anything else tonight,” Natasha says to Ms. Potts, loading her rinsed plate into the dishwasher before heading for the elevator. “Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“We should be good, but thank you,” Ms. Potts replies, putting all the papers neatly back into their folder.

“You said something about going to get the marriage license?” Steve asks. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tony twitch.

Ms. Potts hums agreement. “Yes, the appointment is at eleven. We’re meeting Phil downstairs.” She eyes him. “You may want to change.”

Steve glances down at himself, realizes he’s still in running clothes, and feels abruptly awkward. “That might be a good idea,” he agrees, thinks he should probably shower, as well. When he looks up, Tony’s watching him, but he turns away almost immediately. Steve frowns, opens his mouth to ask, but Tony speaks before Steve can get the words out.

“I have a prototype ready for the new body armor,” he tells Ms. Potts. “If Agent Smith is here, I can show both of you before we go? Get his input for SHIELD, and you can check the military contract for specifics.”

Ms. Potts’s eyes flick briefly to Steve, like she knew he’d been going to say something, but all she says is, “I’ll ask him to meet us in my office. Captain, just come down to the executive level in half an hour or so.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve replies automatically, but he continues to sit there for a long moment after Ms. Potts and Tony head for the elevator, taking deep, slow breaths. He’s not sure why the idea of going to get a marriage license is all of a sudden making him tense up. He knew what the plan was, and it’s not like the legality of it is going to change anything, anyway. It just seems oddly _real_ in a way it hadn’t before. Now he has actually signed papers, and is about to go sign more, and then he and Tony are going to be _married_. This is nothing like what he’d pictured the lead-up to getting married would be, in the hazy moments when he’d allowed himself to think about it at all, as a vague ‘someday’ sort of thing. He’d thought. Well. He’s known for nearly a year now that he was never going to have what he’d spent most of his life thinking, and he hasn’t had many new thoughts on the matter in that time. And those he has had, well. They were nothing like this, either.

Worrying about it doesn’t seem to be helping, though, and it’s not like Steve has a lot of time right now. He gives himself a firm mental shake, and pushes himself to his feet.

“Captain!” the boom of Thor’s voice almost makes Steve jump, and he twists to see the other man standing in the doorway behind him.

“Thor,” Steve tries on a smile. “I didn’t hear you come up,” and that as much as anything is a good indication of how distracted he is. “When did you get here?”

“I arrived last night,” Thor replies, beaming.

Steve blinks, because that’s not quite what he meant. He opens his mouth to clarify, but Thor is still talking.

“I spoke with Stark about the ceremony. He said you might require my assistance, as you have few friends in this time.”

Even though he knows Thor doesn’t mean it that way, Steve still bristles. He feels like he shouldn’t be surprised that Tony might have said something like that, but it still makes something in his stomach clench. He’d thought maybe they were getting along.

“Clint said he’d be my best man,” he tells Thor, almost absurdly grateful for the fact now, though he’d been a little underwhelmed when Clint had initially called _dibs_ after their debrief, not quite sure if he’d even need a best man for their charade of a wedding. “And I’m not sure what else I’d need. Ms. Potts and Agent Coulson seem to have everything else in hand.”

Thor eyes him for a moment, head cocked to one side. His exuberance seems slightly dimmed. “Might I ask your intentions for this marriage, Captain?”

Steve stiffens a little and frowns, then remembers that Thor hadn’t actually been present for either the initial meeting that had landed them in this mess, or the planning sessions they’d had afterwards. “I had thought someone would have told you, but this isn’t a real marriage,” Steve explains. “There have been issues with public approval, and Tony and I. Well. We haven’t always been the best at keeping our disagreements in our own kitchen.”

“This is common knowledge,” Thor points out, and he looks a little amused now. “And I was informed of the nature of the agreement upon my arrival. I was given to understand, however, that it was your proposal, and –”

“I didn’t propose!” Steve interjects, rather more loudly than he’d intended. Thor looks startled. Steve’s a little startled, himself, but this is ridiculous.

“It was your suggestion, was it not?” Thor asks.

Steve opens his mouth, then promptly shuts it, because, well, yes, sort of, but still. “But I didn’t _propose_ ,” he insists, not sure why this is a sticking point, but, somehow, it is.

Thor is now looking at him like he’s lost it, and that is not at all comforting. “Did you not make a proposal that was accepted by Director Fury?”

“I.” Steve stops, frowns again, and realizes they’re having two different conversations. He thinks. “The _suggestion_ ,” he stresses the word, because even if Thor doesn’t mean ‘proposal’ the way Steve had initially taken it, he still doesn’t like it, “that I made was changed a bit, but the intent is still to convince the general public that we’re not going to fail at saving the world because of infighting.”

Thor looks ready to say something else, but Steve just can’t, right now.

“Look, I have to go shower and change, and then meet Tony and Ms. Potts downstairs.” He starts backing towards the door. “Thanks for the best man offer, but we’ve got it covered. Welcome back!” and he very pointedly doesn’t make a run for it, but walks swiftly back to his room, wondering for possibly the millionth time in the last few days what he’s gotten himself into.

+

T-minus no hours, and Tony is pointedly not thinking about what he’s getting himself into. That way lies madness, though a distinct lack of panic, which is just as concerning as the alternative. This is marriage, and domesticity, and _marriage_. Tony should be breaking out in hives right now. He refuses to examine why he’s not.

“You are actually planning on going through with this,” it’s not a question, and Tony doesn’t even bother to dignify Rhodey with a look, just tips his chin up a bit higher as he fights with his bow tie. The damn thing won’t cooperate, and it’s got nothing to do with the fact that he can feel the way his hands want to shake.

“Tony,” Rhodey presses.

Tony huffs, undoes the mess he’s made of his tie, and starts over. “We talked about this last night,” he points out, because they did. Ad nauseam.

“And I still think there must be another way,” Rhodey says for what must be the millionth time now. “Marriage or leaving the team aren’t your only options.”

“Steve’s not leaving, either,” Tony tells his reflection. “The man may be a Grade A pain in the ass as often as not, but so are the rest of us. And his leaving wouldn’t really solve anything more than my leaving.”

Its Rhodey’s turn to huff. “All the brilliant minds on your do-gooder team, and at SHIELD, and at SI, and no one can come up with _anything_ else?”

“SHIELD and SI are not involved, except for Pepper, Coulson, and Fury. We’re not broadcasting that this is a giant ruse, that would defeat the purpose.”

“Tony.”

“Yes, Raisin Bran?” Tony eyes the tie, and then rips the whole thing off again, barely restraining himself from throwing it on the ground and stomping on it. _Deep breaths,_ he tells himself.

Rhodey heaves a very put-upon sounding sigh. “Give me that.” He turns Tony around by the shoulders and takes the strip of demon cloth from Tony’s hands.

“Tell me you’re okay with this,” he says, voice soft, and Tony’s embarrassingly grateful that Rhodey’s eyes are on his work as he loops the bow tie around Tony’s neck and carefully knots it.

“It’s just a crush,” Tony insists. “It’s not a problem.”

“No,” Rhodey shakes his head, but he keeps his eyes on the tie. “This is worse than a crush. You had a _crush_ on Katie Whatsername, at MIT. Do you remember how badly that turned out? Because I do.” He gives the tie a final tug and steps back.

“I slept with Katie on and off for half a semester, and I still get Christmas cards from her every year,” Tony reminds him. “Her oldest is starting college next fall.”

“Congratulations,” Rhodey says, automatic, then, “Not the point. Just because you manage to stay on good terms with almost everyone you’ve ever slept with does not mean they do not leave you a wreck when it ends. They may not see the messy ball of engineering misery they leave behind, but I do, and I hate seeing that happen to you. I know I wasn’t always the most supportive of the way you slept around before, well,” Rhodey’s gesture manages to encompass the arc reactor, the armor case by the door, and everything that happened in Afghanistan and since, “but at least you were careful, and I didn’t have to worry I’d get a call in the middle of the night and find you on the dangerous end of a genius binge, wondering what was so wrong with you that nobody cared about you unless you paid them or built them.”

“That happened _once_ ,” Tony says shortly. He turns away, goes to sort through the cufflink options Pepper left out for him. “I was nineteen, and you promised never to bring it up again.”

“It’s happened five times,” Rhodey corrects, somewhere between gentle and exasperated. “The last time was when you and Pepper split up.”

Tony bites back a retort, because if he tries, he can remember each of those times, and that’s something he’s made a point of not doing. “It’s not the same,” he says eventually, still staring fixedly at the boxes of jewelry. “Pepper aside, I was young and stupid and infatuated and convinced myself I was in love. Even with Trent, I’d thought there was something real. This isn’t like that.”

“You have been in love with this guy since before I knew you,” Rhodey snaps, then draws in a sharp breath that Tony can hear even halfway across the room. “Tony, listen to me,” his voice has gone abruptly very gentle.

“I have not been _in love_ with Steve,” Tony retorts, grabs randomly for a pair of cufflinks. “I didn’t even know him then.”

“No,” Rhodey agrees softly. “And now you do, and I know it’s all tangled up in the way you two fight, and your dad. And maybe _in love_ is the wrong way to put it, but I don’t think _crush_ quite covers it either.”

Tony isn’t sure how to answer that, stares at the cufflinks in his hand, tries to focus on his breathing.

“Let me.” Rhodey’s right next to him, again, carefully plucking the pieces from his hand. “Tony?”

“I’m fine,” Tony says, closes his eyes for a moment while Rhodey fiddles at his wrists, then forces himself to open them again, meet Rhodey’s gaze, and say it again. “I’m fine. We’ll do our song and dance, we’ll appease the voting and tax-paying public, and we’ll get out of this and go about our own lives again. I don’t expect anything from him. I’m working on being less of a dick,” he raises an eyebrow at Rhodey, because Rhodey had called it ‘pigtail pulling’ the night before, and Pepper tends to refer to it as him getting his hackles up, but Rhodey doesn’t say anything. “Hopefully, he will respond in kind, and we won’t end up killing each other.”

Rhodey frowns at him. “And that’s what you’re hoping to get out of this? A lack of death?”

“I’m not hoping to get anything out of this!” Tony all but explodes, can’t quite contain it any longer, somehow manages not to yank his hand out of Rhodey’s grip. “This wasn’t my idea! It wasn’t even _his_ idea! It’s a shit situation, and we’re going to be shit at dealing with it, and I’m going to _feel_ like shit, but this is what we’ve got, so I’m going to try to make it as bearable as possible, and you and Pepper throwing all this other _feelings_ crap at me is not making it any easier!”

Rhodey, looking a little stricken, releases Tony’s hand – cufflinks firmly in place – and puts both of his on Tony’s shoulders. “Tones, I’m sorry, I’m just trying to look out for you, you know that, right?”

Tony takes a deep breath, because another outburst is not what anyone needs right now, least of all him, when he has to go out there and, fuck, _get married_ , any minute now. “I know,” he says, grips Rhodey’s wrists and hangs on for just a second. “And I appreciate it. I do. This is not what I thought I’d be doing with my life right now.”

Rhodey gives him a wry grin. “Could have fooled me,” he says, tone light and only a little forced. “You certainly look the part.”

“Thanks,” Tony gives him a bit of a grin back, feeling a rush of gratitude.

There’s a noise from the doorway – a throat being cleared – and both men turn to see Pepper standing just inside the room. “Much as I hate to break up this touching display of manly affection,” she says, dry as dust, “it’s time to go.”

“Right.” Tony takes a step back, holds out his arms to each side. “How do I look?”

Pepper eyes him for a moment from the doorway, then comes all the way in, circles him slowly, brushes at his shoulders, and then nods approvingly. “Very nice,” she says. “He’ll only have eyes for you.”

Rhodey snorts.

Tony rolls his eyes, knowing she’s teasing, but his throat feels tight anyway.

Pepper gives him another long look, appraising in a different way. “It will be okay,” she says, soft, but serious.

Tony gives her a smile he knows she won’t buy. “I know,” he says. Then, because it’s clear Rhodey and Pepper are both waiting on him, “I’ll catch up? I just. Need a minute.”

They look at each other, and Tony really hates when they do that, but the end result is they go.

“We’ll wait for you outside,” Rhodey says, and gives Pepper a little tug to get her moving when it looks like she might say something else.

“Thanks,” Tony gives them another smile, this one a little more sincere, and waits for the door to close behind them before walking back over to the full length mirror and staring himself down. “You can do this,” he tells himself quietly. “It’s just like anything else. You go, you smile, you say a few words when you’re told, you leave.”

“May I suggest you speak only when prompted, sir?” Jarvis interjects. “I believe your usual ‘anything else’ might not be appropriate for your wedding ceremony.”

Tony huffs a bit of a laugh. “Good point, J.”

“If it is any consolation, sir, Captain Rogers also seems to be rather anxious.”

“I’m not anxious –” Tony starts, then cuts himself off. “He is? Are you spying on him?”

“I monitor everyone and everything in the tower, as is my directive,” Jarvis says primly. “I mentioned it merely because it seemed relevant to your current welfare, which is my prime directive.”

That startles an actual laugh from Tony. “You’re sounding like a computer,” he says.

“Heaven forbid,” the dryness of Jarvis’s tone would give Pepper a run for her money. “I merely felt it might do you some good to know Captain Rogers is currently giving himself what appears to be a pep talk, and Agent Barton provided one as well before he went to join the others in the event hall.”

Oddly, that does make Tony feel a bit better about everything. At least he’s not alone in this, and maybe – just maybe – it won’t be so terrible. He’ll have company for all the events he can’t get out of attending, though he’s seen the calendar Pepper has been putting together, and it seems like he’s going to be going to more events than ever, which is unfortunate. But if he and Steve can figure out how to get along, having his company should make all the posturing and posing far more bearable. And if he and Steve can get along, well. Sometimes Tony wants to put on the suit and go a few rounds, but the bit of him that hasn’t managed to douse the damn torch he’s carried for decades can’t help but thrill a bit at the idea of actually being friends with Steve Rogers, actually letting him see the best in him, the bits that everyone else misses, the scattered pieces he doesn’t hate as much as the rest. He’s seen Steve laugh a few times now, seen him smile a few more, and he doesn’t hate the idea of being able to cause that. And fake as he knows this marriage will be, he’s still going to be married to _Captain America_. His inner fanboy takes a moment to cheer, and the part of him that always wants to thumb his nose at everyone who’s ever been a dick to him wants to gloat, because he’s marrying Captain America, their arguments are invalid. There’s something very satisfying in that, even if it’s not really true.

All of the ways this will probably implode are still circling around his brain, but, for just this moment, Tony tells them to shut up. Maybe this wasn’t something either of them wanted, and maybe Steve would rather punch Tony in the face instead of kissing him, but, for now, they’re stuck with each other, and maybe, _maybe_ , things won’t be that bad after all. For right now, Tony’s going to actually let himself hope, because he’s not entirely sure how he’s going to get through this otherwise.

“You get to marry Captain America,” he says aloud to his reflection. “You get to go out there, and kiss Steve fucking Rogers on the mouth, and promise to be his husband. This might not be the absolute worst thing to ever happen.” Instinctively, he touches the center of his chest, feels the smooth solidity of the arc reactor as it hums, the light hidden under the layers of his suit.

_Deep breaths,_ he tells himself, taking one, then another, and drops his hand. “Jarvis?”

“You look positively radiant, sir.” It sounds surprisingly heartfelt.

Tony quirks a grin at the nearest camera. “Flatterer.”

“I say as I find, sir,” Jarvis responds with dignity.

Tony barely refrains from rolling his eyes. “Thank you,” he says instead. “Is Steve in the hall, yet?”

“He is heading there now,” Jarvis replies.

“Ok,” Tony nods, turns decisively away from the mirror and heads for the door.

Rhodey and Pepper are standing a little way down the hall, talking quietly. They both look up at the sound of Tony stepping out of the room he was using for last-minute preparations.

“Ready?” Rhodey asks, tugs the cuffs of his own suit.

“Born ready,” Tony answers, gets the laugh he was going for, and smiles more easily for it.

Rhodey claps him on the shoulder, joviality a little forced, but not as much as it had been earlier. “Then let’s get you hitched.”

Tony rolls his eyes, but follows the two of them around the corner towards the event hall.

Instead of going directly into the hall, Pepper steers them into the staging room next door. Steve, Barton, and a woman Tony doesn’t know – but assumes is there to perform the ceremony – are waiting inside.

“Tony,” Steve looks startled, and Tony almost asks if he was expecting someone else, but manages to bite back on the impulse at the last minute. He can do this. And the way Steve’s eyes sweep him from head to toe and back is both unexpected and strangely gratifying. “You look,” his eyes sweep up and down again, and he swallows. “You look good,” he says eventually, and even though there’s a stranger in the room, Tony’s pretty sure it’s not for her benefit.

Feeling a little warmer under the collar than he’d like, Tony swallows roughly, himself. “You, too,” he says, wants to reach out and touch, because Christ on a cracker does Steve look good, but isn’t sure that’s allowed. He firmly tucks his hands into his pockets to keep them out of trouble.

Pepper says something, probably introducing the woman, and Tony nods, but he’s still watching Steve, can’t seem to not, stuck somewhere between _wow_ and _stop staring like an idiot_. But Steve’s watching him back, and Tony isn’t sure why, determinedly doesn’t reach up to touch the arc reactor again, keeps his hands safely tucked away.

Something like half a second later, Steve breaks their staring contest first. Pepper’s shooing him towards the door to the hall, and Tony looks around, and realizes it’s just the three of them in the room.

“What –” he starts, but Pepper stops him.

“You’re going last,” she says.

Tony blinks, then looks back at Steve just as he reaches the door.

“See you out there,” Steve says, soft, over his shoulder, and then Tony watches him walk through the doorway. He can’t help the way his gaze skims down Steve’s shoulders and back, sticking for a second on his ass, and down his legs, then back up right before the door swings shut.

“Well, shit,” he says under his breath.

“What?” Pepper looks up at him.

Tony shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says quickly. “I didn’t – it was nothing.”

Pepper gives him a suspicious look, but there’s clearly no time, because she lets it go, and gives him a push towards the door. “Your turn,” she says, keeps half a step behind him as they walk.

And then they’re in the event hall. Tony will remember afterwards that it really looks like a wedding, with flowers and fancy chairs and everyone dressed to the nines. There’s music playing from somewhere, and Rhodey and Barton and the officiant are all standing at the end of the aisle, under some sort of decorative arch. The only thing he really sees in the moment, though, is Steve, standing next to Barton, and watching Tony.

_This feels real,_ Tony thinks, and then, immediately, _I’m so fucked._

Pepper gives him a subtle poke in the back. “Walk,” she hisses.

Tony manages not to jump, locks eyes with Steve, and starts walking.

+


End file.
